this is not a poem yet. my veins are not going to be punctured with drugs
i have to do something this year to show the world that i'm alive and
the years of art school in new york city, and jobs in creative departments
where i was so stressed out to be plugged into machines that
with a glass pipe i blew my brains out every morning before the trains
i have wasted my time.
passion is just passion. of the millions of passionate sperm
only one becomes a child. i spent
many years being a child living out a dream of music
running away from responsibilities and my family. trying to tell people
how i feel. having songs rejected by would be lovers. repeating myself
and never making money. yuck.
i feel so hollow and, twentyfour years old.
i love the ocean.
it can support so much life and yet give every living thing
nearly no chance of survival.
krill die in order to fuel whales.
i want to mean something.