Concrete world

I like my concrete world. I walk down the stairs, look for floor # 18 and plop down on my sorry a@#.  I watch the balled up receipt I threw in the corner  of the stairwell, five weeks ago, to confirm not even the janitor goes there. I sit in the corner of the world I know most I won't be able to hurt anyone. Because there's no one around. I'm all alone. So alone.

I sit and tell myself I'm here by all  by myself.

I simply need to keep moving.

I'm beginning to see how people are actually scared of me. And how much of an ass that makes me. I am beginning to see how unkind of a person I truly am. what little I do for society. What little I do for for my family, now days. This is not good. This is not good. I use to think I was a good person. I use to think I was smart, attractive, knowledgeable, better more sophisticated.
In all reality, I have tth skills of no one, going nowhere, and I'm an alcoholic. I simply need to keep moving.

She was worth it.

The congregation of mourners
on the corner of obesity
next to the overslept days
and nights
and mornings
and afternoons
and nights again
With the jobs at that place that could take my hung over self and decrepit soul
that languished on the side of beauty
that men pined over in drunken stupors
at dive bars they had visited for ten plus years
but never saw an a*& as nice and young (in their drunkard state) as mine
so they could stick there horrid tales of ruptured disks and spines and spleens and minds and joints and live another day to let themselves into places other than me.
Yes, she was worth it.
Ever in excess alcoholic nights,
that I languished on the side of caution,
then bewilderment in the eyes of my colleagues the next morning.
She was worth it.

(this writing piece was someone else, I will be back soon)

The Enviable Truth

I feel too often we have to lie with our smiles and our words and say the truth with our eyes.

de·bauch·er·y

I have to make my voice a kind interruption
an invitation
a never overstep
a politeness unknown to me at the second
I may or more likely may very well know you too well
In the very midst,
Knowing what I don't know
Saying what I don't say
Doing what I never do
And then
Doing it all over again.
Just to live as you live better than me.

Charles Bukowski is better than anything

I'm sorry I didn't listen to you more. I'm sorry I didn't listen to halfway through whatever you were saying, at all. I'm sorry I didn't see you for what you were. And that what you were was to be slipped through my fingers in seconds. I'm sorry I didn't get your phone number. I'm sorry I didn't get your address. I'm sorry I didn't look deeply into your eyes I don't know the color--Or of the hair I think was black. I'm sorry I didn't get your surname, your more than nickname, your whatever would link me to you and the still knowing of you.
I'm sorry I didn't copy down what more I could do to be like you. For at twenty you amazed me and forever more meeting and passing a stranger on the street will be as close as I ever came to knowing you truly.
No matter how deeply you looked into my eyes and knew my first and last name and maybe even my address. How keenly you followed who I was and where I had been.
I'm sorry I wasn't better equipped to handle knowing and being around an artist such as yourself because now all that lines the insides of plates I scrape and knives I wash and buses I blend into is guilt, and that same worry as before that kept from knowing anything especially that hug that will never be cashed in on.

I only want sinking ships

I only want sinking ships. I only want the disasters. I hold out until the time is right, until the flicker is gone right from your eyes. Right at that moment, the hound dogs come out. There starts the whispering, the yearning.

All I want is for you to echo how much I don't want myself, in the end, and the pounding, the scratching, the digging leads to the surface, and right there, I'll love you! Tell me I'm not good enough, and everything will be at your command, because a part of me believes, more than believes, I'm truly not. A huge f'ing part.