i want
to sit here staring
at the wall
drinking this
entire
bottle of wine
greasy
unshaved
and not doing
a goddamned
thing.
i want
to forget
the noise outside
the goals
the jobs
the friends
the love
and i want
to forget how
to be a writer
this monster
of myself
this
distortion
i created so
long ago.
but i can’t.
as evidenced
by this poem.
even wanting
to do nothing
becomes
something
in the
game
of making
“art.”
how sad
we’ve truly lost
the soul.
i’d watch
the rain fall outside
and the leaves
blow
off the trees
but that would
probably just
become another
poem
too.
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