Words of Ana, Natalie and Sheila

I read the words of Ana, Natalie, Sheila, 
. . . and I think, “I used to feel that deeply.” 
I realize what a fraud I am. I need piss to drip down on to this empty head. Pain or pleasure. Some fucking miracle – or some fuckin’ – breaking my perfectly meaningless crib into seven hundred splinters. 

If I could reach back in time to the instant I ran away I’d drive this big machine in reverse at 135 mph.

I would if I could. If I could find the gearshift in this darkness.

The last thing I deserve is the one thing I need.

Thoughts are lesser reasons. Still, I stay clear of great writers when possible.


About memoirpoet

I've been faking it as a writer for more than 30 years. Keep that low.
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