I write to cope with the world,
like how a drinker drinks to life.
I wet my whistle on the fountain pen,
diving deep into the bottle of my mind.
I hide there surrounded by my own darkness,
part of which is gunk picked up from time.
Ever seen spat-out gum on a street?
After a while it becomes a black blotch;
afterwards it’s just part of the scene,
along with homelessness
and people consumed by broken dreams.
Well, that’s all inside of me,
blended with the misspellings
and grammatical issues of my birth;
I can’t handle it all without spilling
my drink along the page.