all raw poetry, all the god damn time. we can't afford an editor.

all raw poetry, all the god damn time. we can't afford an editor.

i feel like i don't belong anywhere. not here. maybe there. some places sometime and other when the mood suits. seriuosly everything is not clicking for me right now, but there are signs everywhere of something good just around the bend. just wish it wasn't so hidden and traps wern't splayed out hidden underneth the wooden floor everywhere.

where i am right now, i write fast. get it out, get it out. it's nice sometimes but seems futile. drinking the ocean and spitting it out at lightning speed. i need to explain the big picture.

its actually very rare that im happy these days. what the fuck is up with that? there are moments. i dont wanna work. i think a normal full time job would do me in. im only meant for the life of artist, poet, pirate, madman, magician, adventurer, billionaire anything less real and romantic is not worth the living, except maybe a very simple but rich life somewhere exquisite, a small adventure in itself.