Whiskey on a tuesday

Hemingway said to write drunk,

And edit sober.

I’ve decided to partake in the former.

You see, for me, editing reduces my authenticity.

Human beings, as intelligent as we pretend to be,

Mistake our mistakes for misguided attempts at good intentions,

And my intentions are anything but,

So I will not edit.

I will not let a spelling error determine the price of my thoughts,

Now hush.

Listen to the walls,

Hear me whisper through the hiss in your vents,

Hear me vent through the thoughts you tried to drown out last weekend,

At the club, or the bar, or at home with a bottle of liquor.

Let me bring them back,

Until you can’t bear to breathe,

Until you’d kill a man for silence,

And silence a heartbeat for a moment of peace.

This is when I’ll hire you,

In exchange for hiding the truth,

Because blackmail comes in all forms,

And I just happen to know true torture.

It lies in the moments when you sit on your couch, thinking about the tasks you can’t complete,

And you feel you can’t compete,

In a world that won’t stop fucking moving.

It rests in your attempts to keep up,

As you jump hurdles, and fall face up,

Because you know that really you’re just a fuck up.

And you’ll continue to be,

Until you let my words invade your eardrums,

And you watch my thoughts escape me,

And creep across the barren fields of your existence.

Don’t worry, darling, I’ll give you purpose.

It’ll only cost you everything.