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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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i don’t like writing poems
i hate this superhuman struggle to give a shape to my dreams & thoughts in the end i come to understand the futility of everything soap bubbles bursting in the air i deceive myself to keep going by thinking that in the next word or line i’ll find pleasure but there’s no such thing just the masturbation of a dead organ i’m not a poet but – i know it sounds awfully pathetic – the truth is that my blood is the blood of a poet and the worst thing of all is that it knows it i’m the holographic image of a mad god trying to create a solid reality
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