This is why I write

At times it comes out masterfully like
Bukowski or Fante
but more often than not
it’s as pathetically piss poor as the work of
Paterson or E.L. James
reeking of a writer’s most gut wrenching enemy;
Main-stream-ism

I don’t do it for you
and I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what you think
any more than you give a shit what runs through my twisted skull
I don’t write for money or fame or notoriety
however, I’ll gladly accept it if it comes my way
If you want to publish me, then publish me
but if you expect me to edit to suit your readers
you can tongue fuck my rectum
and while you’re down there
be sure to anally intrude me like angel
with a serpents tongue
until She leaves my mind

‘cause everything brings Her to mind:

my lighter
the reaper
my bookshelf
the ringtone
even the plaque in the god damned park
reminds me of Her;
and the list goes on…

I write to remember Her
and I write to forget
I write to sort through the clutter in my skull
as a cheap therapy
that allows me to converse with my soul
because it’s more freeing than a cocktail
and less hassle than shooting smack
and unless I leave all of me on that page
it’s unsuccessful;
no matter how many people
read it or
love it.