Self-Pity

I’m fantasizing about my future as a failed writer.

There’s some poetry in that life, there is.

In tall cigarettes becoming slowly stunted, like my hope.

In a quivering, wasted hand that couldn’t lift the pen in time; now clutching a heavy glass with cheap whiskey.

A failed marriage. A cheating husband.

And the absence of a child, who could’ve been my last chance at happiness.

There’s some poetry in that life, there is.

Perhaps then I’d hit it. Nurse all my grief like a newborn and then suddenly smash its skull on paper and create something heartbreakingly phenomenal.

By destroying myself.

Writing comes from suffering after all. Doesn’t it?

DOESN’T IT???

No. It doesn’t.