This isn’t really a poem, but I’ll call it one, and then maybe it will become so. It’s about that twisted feeling you get sometimes, when you wish your life was much worse than it is so that you could have something interesting to write about.
This is what you write when you’ve been emptied out. It takes stuff to write. You’ve got to have the right stuff in you and enough of it. You’ve got to get good at using your stuff. And once you go through it all you’ve got to be able to refill your stuff with more stuff, which you’ve gathered from the world outside yourself. The best writers either constantly make their own stuff or force other people to produce it for them.
*stuff= that feeling you get when you realize that one (or more) people in this world hate you, and that you’ve done something to make them hate you because they did not always feel that way, and you know exactly what you did to make them hate you, and it’s the same thing you’ve been doing your entire life, the thing you keep telling yourself you’ll give up doing, but you never do, you can’t.
Written at 1:06 in the morning, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while hearing strange noises come from the garage.