Spending some time at the end of my day going through a folder of poems I wrote eons ago. Why don’t I still write them? Why do I write only one, maybe two a year? I wrote dozens, thousands, millions of them. Yes, I’d hit 20% gold, but at that rate, that’s a good collection. The ones now, they’re rare, and rarer still, gold-plated and pretty to look at.
Young, dumb 20’s. Breast full of air, the swell of youth, the juice of life, and veins full of hope in relevance, companionship, sex, lust, forever, forever. I can’t possibly hope to go back to that and expect respect. Men kill for a return to previous forms. But the recent years have handed me a razor edge to slice and disdain, a ballot and a bullet of poisonous ideas that nobody gives a damn, that there’s nobody out there, that nothing means anything. That’s a sour drink, and it’s a sick thing to take in and spit out every day. I need more than this.
I need more.