I sit on a graffiti covered ledge. I light a cigarette. From here I see the top of Mont Royal. Trees obscure the mansions on its side. But closer to me it’s social housing and dumpsters, a church with broken spires. This suits me. I go home to write. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough.   The ones who don’t fit in.   The ones I see my own face in.  
Read more
Along rue Notre-Dame I walk slow, no rush. A homeless woman with blue hair stomps through the park barking like a dog, princess printed on her shirt. In a greek restaurant I order food. The waiter says I sound like un vrai français. Get the fuck out of here I laugh. It’s Saturday night, the whole city smiles. 
Read more
The feeling of something ain’t right isn’t scratching my stomach or clogging the air today. Of course I don’t want to be here but making money is a necessity. I have to pay the phone bill and the internet and I’d like to eat, how bourgeoisie. I’m lucky though, I dug in, my rent is cheap. I have what it takes to make it. 
Read more