after a dose of particularly strong scotch
I envision the act of writing to be something of a reflex
that I can’t control
I feel like a hopeless addict
but instead of taking toxic things in
I put them out for the world to scrutinize
why the hell would I do such a thing?
what drives me to write
when I should be doing something more productive?
I might as well be chopping off my toes with a butter knife
I think writing is a reverse addiction
where instead of getting yourself high
you hope to get others high
the depressing thing is:
I don’t think anybody has ever gotten high
reading my goddamn poems