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


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