Being a poet is a real struggle and sometimes I just feel like giving up. I’m drinking everyday and it’s affecting my thinking, watching the neighbourhood turn into a battleground. I prayed to my angels for healing, that they’ll take that poison right out of my hand. I come down to the undone river and watch a rebel kayak er. I’ve seen alcohol ruin my father, yet they’re so friendly at the bottleshop when they sell it to me. I really need something good to happen in my life. There’s a bandaid over my hangover every morning and my poetry seems like a foreign language and no one understands me. A cold wind, spots of rain, a spotted dalmatian dog, 5 minutes from the city, this is eternity.
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