Or,
‘Endeavor’ is my favorite word because it’s the answer to everything.
Well, I did it again. I sat somewhere, pulled a little black book out of my pocket, borrowed a pen, and started scribbling, not because I wanted to , but because I had to. My God, it felt good, and here it is:
So. I was at home fuming
I was pissed until
I realized I was hurt.
I was a victim.
It took me a while.
I typed.
I love typing.
It makes me feel
important
accomplished
intact.
It makes me feel
like I have something
to say.
Until I look up.
I look at my fingers.
I can’t type for shit.
I drag my shifts.
I mispell
completley
apparenteley
beautifil
I can spell with a pen, not
with my fingers.
Worse, I barrell forward
I can’t see what I’m
Doing.
Only what I’ve
Done.
It’s drivel
rave
anger
spit
& vinegar.
It’s awful.
I posted it anyway,
then I drove.
I talk to myself behind the wheel.
I rant, I preach.
I have no disciples,
one disciple,
all the acolytes I could
ever
want
need
forgive.
Can I forgive them?
They don’t seek it.
They are rightous
patriots
martyrs
idiots
madmen
simple men
men of faith
MADMEN.
Men.
Animals.
Bundles of instincts
with no where to go
but East
Down
to Hell that doesn’t
Exist
to an Allah that who has
forgotten them, us
Everything.
But I’m just licking my wounds.
It’s because I’m a victim.
We all are.