pouring my past out onto paper
with due regards, i'll finish... later
wasting time applying myself
cigarettes in between, wasting health
wondering and worrying worthlessly
whether all of this is just pointless
writing, that is- pen in hand-
or if i just run some kind of scam
believing that others want to read me
i think if they do they may just see
a way to avoid winding up like this
stuck, waiting- i wasted all of it
the job, the dream the love, the car;
nights of 'living,' nights in a bar
not only that but even after
full of myself- i hear your laughter
taunting me, tormenting... taming
a writer's life spent writing lamely
of Nothing i know of; occasionally love
sanity, addiction, devotion, home
wanting only to cry out
and finally end my doubt
of whether or not my words are inviting
or if the truth is i'm bad at writing.

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