matamoras

There was a time when I lived with a dusty stolen beige dictionary and a yellow thesaurus next to me. There was even a desk I believed, though I rarely remember using it. There were pens, a typewriter named Erika, and a canister of pencils. I used to write. Everyday. Every second. That is what I did and I was not happy. I was melancholy as most of us were but when I'd get a good rush (and you writers know what I mean) man that high was fucking worth it. Worth all the shit and fucking cliches that I was wading in. All that was worth it. I thought I was just getting into it. I thought I had found someone who knew what that was. When I could and could not be bothered with lunch, with a shower, with anything because I was writing.

At 7 I was together.
At 17 I was unafraid of anything.
At 27 I am wondering what went wrong.

I'm sure I'll lose my love on a Sunday.
I'm sure of it, I am.
It's such an ending day for me.