Tru

The sun rises over Baltimore, and I feel like a sanctimonious prick for writing that line. I've been up all night, to no good. Staying in a room for the night I surely cannot afford due to the shit head landlord of the previous room I had rented being a abhorrent bitch.

That shit be the title of my book. I think, at least. I think a lot of things, and most of them end me up in situations like these.

Sometimes they take me down the path of fortune and success but save for a few moments in my life - maybe more than a few but less than many. Many of the thoughts that pass through my head are of little value at all. I tell myself that, at least.

I tell myself a lot of things that scare me into seeking escapist oblivion like alert awareness of my surroundings. A brightening and tweaking of my perception through women, through drugs and alcohol, through adrenaline or war.

Apparently the fear I feel when I think the doomsday scenario possibilities up in my head that become more realistic every day are the only ones I give value to, therefore leading to the inching further of my own destruction.

They're all one and the same, then again, many of the thoughts that pass through my head are of little value at all. Things that I tell myself are like a shipwrecked man talking to a effigy of his best friend.

Maybe that's true for all of us, but seemingly not all of us. Since the suited men that walk and drive and take the train down the side walk, street, and railways around here always seem to be put together.

I used to be one of them, but never for very long. I've been one in spurts and binges of functionality that always lead me back to where I am right now.

Winning the genetic lottery means exactly jack shit if you can't make use of in life. Not with the self destructive streak that cuts like a bowie knife on a hot day through a stick of butter into everything you try to accomplish, god forbid you accomplish it.

I sometimes really can't believe anyone would fictionalize and entertain with the lifestyle that fucks up everything in mine. The romanticized warrior alcoholic poet who completely tornadoes and nukes everything in his life including the food he eats and the women he fucks.

I had cut off my hair to get back to my high and fucked days of yesteryear. Mistake. Of course. Oh well. Most of the space on my white board has run out, better get a chalk board to fit this one in because god knows the shit is running into the hundreds between women, wars, and wickedness.