I’m not sure how I got here. But it all worked out. This is where I saw myself twenty years ago, hunched over and typing, calling myself a writer. Which is scary. Because the visions I have of my future are grim. If I make it another two decades, I’ll be on the gutter 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lovers in swan shaped boats paddle along the canal. The late afternoon sun shimmers on the surface. Hordes of people wander the banks in various states of undress. They walk dogs and hold hands and hurriedly eat ice cream before it drips down the cone. Simple pleasures cure the lives we lead. 
Read more
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
Sitting on the steps of an abandoned bank that became an abandoned wine bar, I light a cigarette. Two teens smile at me. An older man with tan skin, in a hoodie I notice every day, has given up his dirty looks. We’re a part of each other’s lives. I exhale my first drag. 
Read more