Yes. I am sleepy. Sleepy I should be. I wish to be in bed right now. Why am I not dreaming now? Listening to the saddest song right now, I feel sad. I would like to weep but can’t, though sometimes my heart drops a tear or two. I feel heavy. As a kid, I always wanted a dramatic life you see. Drinks, girls, some dancing, people swinging at each other, trying out a brothel and getting kicked out broke, failing high school, destroying my life in my style, my way, my fashion. Tangled up in blue. You see I have made a mistake. However beautiful, it’s killing me softly. I have somehow injected this sadness way down in my heart. It’s romantic now. When I close my eyes, I feel the breath getting heavier, my beat drops in the stomach. Makes me sick. Sometimes, I get panic attacks too. I ignore them thinking someone is missing me badly. Bless my delusional heart. Yours too.
I got a dream. I see her on a cold night. It’s dark. More than usual. The one just before dawn but more black. I see a plain road, and there she is standing in front of me. She looks clueless. Beautiful she is. Hopeless this time. Not crazy. She was going to take me in her arms but before she could move an inch, I started walking towards her and walked past behind her. I took out a Marlboro red, lit it up from a matchstick, inhaled that thick smoke, exhaled with a deep sigh, and thought about her. She, I swear on all the pussies of the world, has beautiful eyes. I love how she breathes. God. It’s an abyss, my head. I feel tired. Disappointed. This is so fucked up.
I reflect on what I have around. Bukowski makes me sad, a few soundtracks too, my lady’s arms around me. I want to rest my stupid heavy head in her lap. I want to keep my hands on her soft, big, and round bosom. Very firm. I’d like to grab her hand and run away. Into the wild. You know, a relationship between a woman and a man is just made for love. Nothing else. Christ, I want to love her. I want to hear her laugh. Her laugh is funny and captivating. Usually, I would squeeze the thighs but I’d like to the cheeks this time. Give her a long kiss. I would like to climb her every night and put it inside, give her my purple throbbing. I’d like to kiss her forehead now and then. She makes me proud. I want to look her in the eye and feel completely vulnerable, naked, understood, at peace, at home.
I want her to look at me with love. Her eyes should cry my name. She sees only me and our world. She should turn cold when deprived of my touch. Her skin shines and glows when I touch her. Her legs spread, just for me. She gets wet only for my dick.
I don’t know what to do with all this love and sadness. No, no. I tried. I tried that too. I want to be on the way with this heart. Leave her. Yes, Of course. She can’t do all this. These feelings must exist only in the head. Such emotions are dangerous outside. Of course, I’d like it outside, but I am helpless. Stuck. Too broken. I am high, I want to collect all this and run. Remember, the music mustn’t stop. It can’t. It’s in tune. If the music stops, so will the writing and our attempt to swallow this sadness, this rage, this anger, will fail. We must not fail. For we have failed throughout. As parents, as a friend, a lover, a giver, a writer.
Don’t lie to us. For not everyone wants to bleed like me.
Call her. Take her in your arms and never let go. You do it. It is necessary my friend.
After all this, one day you’ll find yourself. Embrace that new you. Have a good drink with him. For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught.
P.S: This sadness within me craves intimacy. I don’t think girls would understand me right now. They are too busy getting fucked by imbeciles. Shallow men. I am at least 50 years ahead. I’d settle for prostitutes for now. They don’t demand much, not talk. I’d like to fuck them brutally and rip their pussy apart. And drive home to the cats. I don’t feel like sharing anymore. Enough for one night.
By: Rocket Man