following some half-assed tradition of loneliness
more than love,
i want a poetic life.
i think i am throwing my hands up in defeat
and it is now time to admit
that all i ever really wanted is the cilche open road.
i want to suffer through
small towns and long streches of road
while i curse my loveless fate.
i am growing so sick of steady love.
i want pain.
i want fear and emptiness
because it seems more appropriate,
i want to travel the expanses of the world
and rest on islands where my body will ache for love.
is it in your arms?
is it in the dark of this moment?
i want to die of heartbreak in forgien hotel bathrooms.
i want to suffer.
and i guess i want to follow all my literary examples
and close my eyes as i drive,
completely surrendering to you,
whoever or whatever you is at that moment.
i am aware that this is just a journal entry
with line breaks in ill fitting places.
i apologize for your lost time.