poem of the day 05.07.14

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.