“DRY”
I’m dry
No stories, no words
No brilliant combination of phrase and metaphor sliding into stark realities and exploding into the colorful and comforting
No hiding behind tales of depravity and murder
No resting in hidden corridors
I’ve been pushed out into this waste land and I’m wandering around a prison of crazy fuckers pulling at my universe
And work going crazy
And Christmas shopping and changing diapers and the whatever
Even now, bent over the twigs furiously working the kindling to spark a fire
PTA and juice cups and Thanksgiving dinner
And I’m just tired
My wife and I have regressed to short mutterings instead of conversations
Mentally and physically spent and wasted dry
And I’m cooking this dope to get wet
But the wind blows and puts out the torch flame
So I settle for a shot of whiskey and the only result was this lousy poem that I’m even ashamed to publish on a fucking internet blog
So because of that, I know that I should
So I do.
