Hiatus Over (How I’ve missed you!)

Edit: Slightly tweaked to remove misplaced vitriol.

Did you miss me?

I missed me

Like I missed this

(the sense of purpose it gave me,

the familiar, the routine:

wake up, go to work, hit to the gym, come home, writewritewrite)

Right

That’s what’s important here

The art, the production,

The unrelenting tide of words,

The inevitability of it all,

Reliable as clockwork,

As the sun rising and setting

(although some days the sun might

rise a minute late, or two, or ten, or six hours,

but I won’t tell anyone if you don’t)

 

I missed me

But now I’m back with

Black nails and black lungs and Black Label,

Back because this is better than any drug but love

(and my dealer don’t carry that no more,)

Back because I stared into the void of

The Tumblr poets and their book deals

And I blinked when I should have spit

(but oh, I’ve got spit now, I’m full of it)

 

I missed me right up until I was told 

You’re not even writing for the right reasons”

And I said nothing when I should have said

Fuck you”

 

I came roaring back then

Lord Lazarus

Rotting and bloated and bandaged

No miracle but a zombie

A dead thing best left interred

No strip tease but a big throbbing dick

Sudden and unwelcome on your screen

 

I should have said

Any reason’s the right reason

Every reason’s the right reason

I need your validation like I need

A hole in my head (even if I want it)”

 

I should have said

I will write because I am happy

I will write because I am sad

I will write because I want to leave my mark on this world

I will write because nothing matters

I will write because I am in love

I will write because love is bullshit”

 

I should have said

I will write because not writing is driving me crazy

Got me smoking, hitting bars on workdays,

Running with the wrong crowd, spending money I don’t have,

Staring at my ceiling feeling ants crawl across my skin”

 

I should have said

I will write because I am joking

I will write because I am serious

I will write because worse writers than me are doing it”

 

I will say this, though:

Fuck them, too

 

Keep your formalism

Keep your avant garde

Keep your baby rattles and your tin gods

Keep your blogs (and yes, I’m aware of the hypocrisy,

and no, I don’t give a damn)

 

I will sit here with the corpses of Bukowski and Hemingway

And I will do this for no one other than myself

And the ghosts that haunt me

 

I will make lists

I will compose poems

I will crack jokes

I will write short stories

I will pen novels

 

And none of it will mean anything

And it will never be as sublime as I want

And it will never be transcendent

And I’ll do it anyway

 

It’ll be self-referential

Self-indulgent

Trite, cliché, narcissistic drivel

And it will never see publication

And I will never be rich

And I will die old and alone and unsung

And even so I will die happy

 

Because it wasn’t bad poetry about blowjobs

Because I didn’t live for likes and follows and retweets

Because all I really need is your cries of hate

Because it will still be better than anything James Franco has ever written

 

I haven’t gone anywhere, but I’m back

I don’t know you, but oh, how I’ve missed you

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