A little poem
I read everything and understand nothing,
Painting pretty pictures of what never was.
What I write about was before words,
The holocaust reflected in my broken stupid love affairs.
I see my mother in Arthur Rimbaud's,
Condemning me, a failure, to the sanatorium.
The first few poems were full of hate for her,
Then, later, it was done more subtly.
To live in an unloved vacuum all of your life,
Craving the interruptions of the voices in the head.
Poetry speaks to me, Susan speaks to me,
Neverending music on the player, I am never empty.
And people say `dig deeper, don't reapeat yourself',
I hit rockbottom fifty years ago.
I know death. I have been there.
You don't know what's happening and just drift away.
I wish alcohol gave me oblivion. This life's been a waste of time.
Only the poems.
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