Feast

Here I sit
Hiding in a bathroom with an
Oak door
Repressing a hatred,
An overwhelming sense of loathing for the
Mentally and creatively and
Emotionally repressed middle class
Pretending to be upper class
And thinking that these bad eggs are
The symbol they are living the American dream,
Rising above their station to experience
Hundred dollar food poisoning (so much more suave and
Less demeaning to expunge than twenty dollar food poisoning) .
The dessert is as decadent as the philosophy,
The unwavering worship of an idea ofwhat wealth means.
And they will all still die
And it will be no more beautiful than when I do.

I'm so sorry

This is probably getting old (if anyone still reads any of this) but I haven't been able to concentrate on writing for long enough to put real content here, so I guess I will just tell you a real life story.

I'm sitting here writing this from the waiting room of my therapist. Yes, I'm stereotypical. I am a starving artist, who, as far as I know, is only starving because he can't finish anything worth reading. And I have a rather intense case of chronic depression.

For the love if god, don't read that as a request for sympathy. Quite the opposite. I think its just... an excuse maybe? I would like to believe that I know my way around a story and the language well enough that, if I finished anything resembling a novel, plenty of people would read it. And I have no aspirations to get movie deals and all that sort of fame and hullabaloo. I just want to create enough to live my life, and on some level, I know its possible. I hear these stories or whatever about people self-publishing to the kindle store and whatnot, and it shows me there is a light at the end of my tunnel.

Alright, sorry. This whole thing is really just supposed to be me apologizing to no one in particular for having a shit blog. I will do my best to give you guys something with reading this week, (hopefully several somethings, I really need to get to work) and I will see you then!