Ok, while I prefer to simply put up a poem without explanation, this poem probably needs explanation, or at least me to mention the timeframe, in case anyone should worry about me today: I wrote this (I think) in early July, around my birthday. So yeah, I felt that perhaps I should say that. Without further adieu, (wait, there’s now slightly more adieu: Mac users can enjoy this especially by holding command, option, and control then hitting 8, it ought to flip the colors)
Writing on black paper.
Writing with white ink.
Writing through this excruciating headache.
Writing because I’m mad.
Writing because I’m miserable.
Writing because I’m sick.
Writing in bed.
Writing at night.
Writing without any purpose.
Writing to excoriate.
Writing. Don’t make me laugh.
Writing isn’t going to do anything.
Writing is exhausting. You’ll never finish anything.
Writing when you’re tortured – is that it?
Writing about what makes you mad.
Writing because you can’t help but feel you’re in love with whores.
After reading this more closely, it sounds like the speaker might just really like whores. Hopefully the tone of the rest of the poem deters that particular interpretation.