Before boarding the plane
my step-dad gave me some sudden advice
“Don’t accept free food samples”
I suppose being poisoned
is a fear that I had yet to acquire
but at last here it is
I sipped from a glass of wine
between a marble statue and concrete
on the third sip, I found myself upstate
in the closing part of winter
there I was, staring at the ceiling fan
trying to convince the man in the red wool sweater
to paint over
all of the thin black lines
I had painted on their door
The more shit that happens,
the stronger (softer) I become.
I have to go take this face mask off
and brush my teeth
remember that it is all
I had with that person
felt like I was cycling
through all of the emotions
every single one
in the speed of light
thrown into black hole,
and shot out of a cannon,
Lines that are reoccuring
2 mugs at the thrift store,
setting a table of hope
cliche way possible,
I’ll buy two
just in case
there is a happy ending
for this strange girl that I know
The handle broke on one them
predictable thing that could happen
We sat across from each other
or maybe I was standing
were definitely sitting
with the heaviest feet
grounded on the floor
arms on the arm rests
as if to say this is my chair
and I’m not going anywhere
you get up and leave the room
after I look at you
and then the pattern repeats
we haven’t even met yet
Everyone tells you to be confident,
to completely fall in love
But the overly confident person
is not likable.
Someone sure in their every step and movement,
is not relatable.
The self degrading comic
is well received by the audience.
Forget about this poem.
I’ll journal today instead. This poem was going nowhere, fast.
My birthday and the new year are fastly approaching, next day, next week,. What are my goals? I guess to write everyday. To run everyday. And to paint everyday. But I need to turn these goals into a money making goals. It is a fact that I need to make more money if I want to change my current situation. Today, after a long day at work. I will apply to jobs. I will sketch something for the new canvas and I will walk the dogs.
Writers look like writers,
by their pens, glasses, and paper.
Do I look like a writer?
I don’t know, but I need a new journal.
I have been going back in the moleskine
that I got two years ago
and writing and sketching on the pages I already wrote on.
This makes for a confusing
and hard to understand
But if I do buy a new journal, with my nonexistent money,
I want it to be a Moleskine.
Just to keep the tradition going.
It makes the letters on the page
look legitiment and smart
Like I am writing important things, which will later be
discovered, a la Van Gogh.
I have always had such a fascination with Van Gogh.
To be more successful after your death,
is that even success.
He also cut his ear off for a lover,
I’d trust him.