2008-05-18 - 6:43 p.m.
Sitting in the back yard, vodka in one hand, pencil in the other. Wearing just a swimsuit, in the middle of a desert. Sandals dropped carelessly to the dry earth, next to scattered papers. Trying to fill as many stereotypes as possible, I'm writing poems about unrequited love, and also gangster life. I have a notebook, wide ruled, and still I'm using two lines to get out what I need to get out. Every time I get to the end of a page, I rip it out and drop it on the ground. The brick wall that surrounds this place is lined with papers, all of them fluttering in the wind, trying to escape. All these words trying to get away from me.There's another pad of paper. This one for graphing, and on every one of the first sixteen pages is a different mathematic idea. These are my poetry and my prose set in a separate medium. Different theories I keep having that I can't find any answers to, no matter how many books I read. There are ideas that I have sometimes that don't make any sense. There's a girl I've never met who is on my mind (not for that reason), and I keep thinking "I hope she never gets to see the world like I see it" and, less superficially, "Has she been fucked?"
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