It's 5:22 in the morning the same way it was yesterday and I cannot sleep the same way I couldn't yesterday. I'm going to be a zombie again tomorrow (today) because I still have to finish a goddamned outline for my Creative Writing class. Oh, and fuck, I have to write/print my Composing Self paper. Goddamnit.
all theories
like cliches
shot to hell,
all these small faces
looking up
beautiful and believing;
I wish to weep
but sorrow is
stupid.
I wish to believe
but belief is a
graveyard.
we have narrowed it down to
the butcher knife and the
mockingbird.
wish us
luck.
"Untitled" - Bukowski
No idea why I feel so attached to that poem. I do, though, and I cannot stop reading it. For the past few years, every single time I read it, I get chills or revelations.
I don't understand the desire for autographed things, as a side note. We all end up breathing the same air; what's the difference? What's the point? [/mini-rant]
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