Finished

I cannot finish a thing.
I write these words now, knowing that when I come across them in a few days I shall curse myself for wasting a page,
a book,
a lifetime, on emotionless ramblings.

I cannot finish a thing.
I pour my whole self into something, only to find out later on that the juices of my imagination leaked through holes in the bottom of me, escaping into several poorly filled glasses.
I poke peas around my plate, as I do words on this page.

I cannot finish a thing.
I dream of Ginsberg! I dream of Kerouac!
I see my name on trophies, on certificates, on public school anthologies printed years from now.
In my right eye I am at the forefront of a second beat generation, whilst with my left I unknowingly absorb articles about Somebody’s shock nine pounds weight loss.

I cannot finish a thing.
My mind is a kaleidoscope, too busy and fast paced to ever fully capture one image,
or perhaps my passion for whatever it may be I am passionate about today, is merely a mask worn by my eagerness for passion itself.
It could be that my fervor is for words themselves, in which case perhaps a career in transcription would suit me better.
I cannot finish a fucking thing.

A poem,

A stanza,

A sentence,

A thought,

A conversation,

A prescription,

A dream,

A meal,

A smile,

An orgasm.

I cannot finish a

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s