a simple life
writers write about writing
when they have nothing left in the tank
well, that’s me this morning
sitting here with chapped, itchy legs
a hangover and the shits
more death and sports on the morning radio
than i can stomach
i’m sitting here wondering why
i do this in the first place
at forty years-old it’s no longer for the glory
for myself or otherwise
to be honest, hauling my ass out of bed
before the sun rises
to throw some words down
seems rote and tired to me more than inspired
i think of all of those people who are still in bed
while i’m stuck stringing sentences together
the ones who will rise without thought
get showered, get dressed
get stuck in traffic and go to a job
for which they will give no honest effort
fill their bellies and spend their evening watching
television
or playing on the computer until they pass out
the ones who’ll never have a suicidal thought
over what they’re leaving behind
what artless bliss these beasts must exist in
i really don’t know how this happened to me
in the first place
for i was once some kid in some neighborhood
a baseball bat and a glove
the television on to my fat contentment
hurling words at people like bombs
meant to disappear without thought
and not set down on paper
carving for myself a simple life
and not fooling myself with the pale glow
of self-righteousness
or god awful immortality.
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