it is a tender process writing memoir. like therapy on a crack pipe.
cut my heart open and let it bleed in the sink
look for patterns in the blood lines
why are we here?
why are any of us here?
to sweetly fuck the abyss
writing the book is my way now of sweetly fucking and getting fucked by the abyss
yet i am so driven to do this
ever since i was a little girl, i wanted to be an author
so i wake up drink my coffee
look at the new lines on my face
wonder if i will ever be loved enough before i die
and get to work
persistently massaging this mass of grey matter into
the clay i can sculpt from
make something of singular beauty
in a fleeting lifetime
everybody wants "spiritual teachers" to have the answers
i am standing on the side of the road with my pants down
shouting at the traffic speeding by
"I DON'T KNOW!"