poetry as a social drug

I guess people expect me to be the same immutable object, 24/7. No changing mood, no sense of confusion, no despair. Those who meet me in real life have a different take on me than those who meet me first through my books and poetry

I think...I think that the man I am in my poetry is the real me. The day to day is just a facade I wear to keep people away from the tender parts. Someone once commented that the person I am in my blog does not seem to be the same man I am in normal conversation.

True enough and fair enough. I am an honest, earnest man, but I know if you are too earnest in the day to day you will be picked clean before your bones hit the ground. Other people shift their personalities via drugs or alcohol. I do mine with the stroke of a pen.

It is late and I am weary. The antipathy of this world has worn me to the nubs and I must recharge. A night at a time keeps me alive, if but barely. But there has been no serious revitalization in a few years. I am, inside, a walking corpse, with but memories of life. I battle not depression, but a hollowing out as I feed more and more on the memories of love rather than the presence of it, like a man chewing leather to make his stomach ache stop with the illusion of meat.

No wonder the lyrics to "Manticore" have eluded me, the music is joy and celebration, and I am grown sullen.