I Get Into A Rut, Unable To

Sure, I’m Dramatic And Sloppily Semi-cynical And Semi-sentimental. But, In Leisure Years I Could Grow And Choose My Way. Now I Am Living On The Edge. We All Are On The Brink, And It Takes A Lot Of Nerve, A Lot Of Energy, To Teeter On The Edge, Looking Over, Looking Down Into The Windy Blackness And Not Being Quite Able To Make Out, Through The Yellow, Stinking Mist, Just What Lies Below In The Slime, In The Oozing, Vomit-streaked Slime; And So I Could Go On, My Thoughts, Writing Much, Trying To Find The Core, The Meaning For Myself.

The Slime Of All My Yesterdays Rots In The Hollow Of My Skull.

The Silence Between Us Was So Profound I Thought Part Of It Must Be My Fault.

I Think I Am Mad Sometimes.

My Life Is A Discipline, A Prison: I Live For My Own Work, Without Which I Am Nothing.