hardcorefornerds:

unbornwhiskey:

JETS TO BRAZIL:

“I TYPED FOR MILES”

This is the night. How it clips your limbs.

I live in a hotel / must keep writing / if I’m to be better than everyone else / like figure skating / like asphyxiating / on your own seeping fumes

This is how it always is. Sunday nights fed by coffee or wine, any incidental enhancement available so I may with ease drag my words from the lake, where they would otherwise stay submerged, elusive.

note so self : no one cares. your voice is average / in worried piles I typed for miles / you just stood there / I will begin / I will put right / this morning terror / I have been kissed / between the ears / by human error / leave me here to my devices / I need a word to change my life / I’ve tied my ankles to the table legs with wire / he can’t write so much as type

It’s self-defeating. It’s essential for me to write something large and largely unfocused at least once per week for me to even feel somewhat okay about myself. This is in no way a healthy arrangement.

This is all I know how to do.

you keep fucking up my life