I’m not ready to be published yet, but I’ll keep writing. I just want one book published and then I’ll die simple and happy.
I got wasted with some mammals last night. Then went to a bar down the road from where we drinking in a loaded truck. Got in free, came out poor. Ended up grinding my teeth all night while I was asleep without a whole lot of dreaming. The pot was there, the beer was there, every one and thing was there. But I can’t remember any of it.
I’m standing in the kitchen of my apartment making mac and cheese (off brand single box) washing dirty dishes and hating myself. I’m still a fucking 17 year old sometimes.
We live in a world where we have to hide everything we do. Who we fuck, what drugs we take, and (most importantly) how we think. We can’t recognize each other with all this blur. I believe honesty will solve these problems. Don’t do anything you’d have to hide, and guilt will slide right off.
astronautssleepinspace: This is a poem. I think. Though nothing is ever certain.
we have more than ever the selfish wants of power the disregard for the weak...– Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski (via henrycharlesbukowski)