My English Professor says that I am not that good of a writer. I should have known by all the garbage I lugged around with me. Espousing it here and there. Trying to lighten the load. It's better to accept it I suppose. Not everything can be good. It'***** and miss. If I throw enough **** at the wall some of it is bound to stick. He said, "You can only be as good as the stuff you read." Maybe I should read more good ****. Any suggestions? I like to read Bukowski. He says Bukowski is trash. I really don't care what he thinks. I'll be happy with a C. And hopefully, a degree one day. He reads The New York Times and rambles on about politics. I read trash and I don't talk very much. I'm too busy thinking about liquor and women. Usually one at a time or one in particular. I work, go to school and come home to play mediocre superdad or distant husband. I wonder if I'll get that degree. I wonder if I even really care anymore. And if not, then why? Maybe there is some fateful reason for all this. That's what people like to say, "Everything happens for a reason." It sure feels good to think like that. Seems that way.

Another night of liquor
A bottle gone to my despair
of drowning out the thoughts with music
That **** the silent air
She knows somethings wrong
She knows im weak in spirit
She hears it in the songs
She reads it in the lyric
Another day of duty done
The bills are paid in vain
My brother says just carry on
So i carry on again
I write another drunken prose
With words so simple i compose
A verse, a curse, a wishful spell
To break the monotony of this hell
Nothing special
Just a mess ive made
Another song
For another day

Nothing I appreciate more
Than a listening eye
An honest mouth
And a genuine smile
A voice absent of daggers or broken glass or whatever weapons most use to cut down
To hurt
There is power in your soul
Use it to love and to console
Those of us who are broken
Or vessels of repaired cracks
Feel harder
The stabbing breath of the bitter

You either jump
Or you find yourself one day
Wiping the bitter
Regret from your wrinkled
Lifeless face
Still wondering
If she would
Have been
Waiting there
With the rest of her life
Stuffed in a suitcase
Waiting to take your hand
To where ever your entangled
Fates would lead

When this fever breaks the levee
Salt water eroding the sand
A sea of old emotions
That got out of hand
A Hot water tsunami
Ignored the warning
A sunset hidden
Beyond the clouded thought