The Life of a (sometimes) Drunken Musician.

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The Life of a (sometimes) Drunken Musician. Atheist. Anarchist. Armchair Activist.

My name is David.

I'm boring, nihilistic, lazy, and everybody thinks I'm gay.

I hope you enjoy this...but you probably won't.

Fuck Tumblr.

I realize I made typos in my last poem.

But Tumblr won’t let me fix them.

Bare with me.

Is that the right usage of “bare”?

Lonely Little Me.

I’m sitting here outside your apartment with a six pack and some cigarettes.

I only come here anymore because this is where my friends are at.

I try to be civil, but we both know I was never good at being fake.

Cars keep driving by. People keep walking by.

All the while, I sit here unnoticed.

Lonely little me.

Poisoning my liver.

Blackening my lungs.

Drinking to forget events you and I never could have foreseen.

Another car drives by.

Another person walks by.

All the while, I sit here unnoticed.

Lonely little me.

Poisoning my liver.

Blackening my lungs.

Drinking in hopes I’ll forget you ever existed.

Finished song, Titled: This Shit Sucks.

We drank away so many nights under electrical skies. If I could shrink myself, I’d eat away at your brain and replace those memories with better days. What is it that you used to say? “This is isn’t goodbye, this is matter of fact. I’ll see you tomorrow night, let’s leave it at that.

I’d like to say I drank you away so long ago. But I keep reminding myself you’re the closest thing I have to home. And even that’s getting further from the start. I’d like to feel the pain of a broken heart. But I’ve drank too much and I’m falling apart.

Unfinished Song, Still Untitled.

Tell me what you think:

If the devil were to come tonight would he brush back my hair and wipe the tears from my eyes?

Everything’s going to be alright, you’re gonna be fine.

If the devil were to come tonight I’d rip his fucking head clean off of his spine.

And I’d pick at his mind, I’d swim through each cell, one at a time.

And I’d digest what I find, because before I go, I’ve got to know just what it’s like…

To stop people’s hearts with a slip of the tongue.

I drink to forget just exactly what I’ve done.

On the television in the living room…

Kids are parading around with AK-47s.

Reports of a country at war with itself are being fed to me by a mannequin of a man.

Each hair where it needs to be.

Plastered in place.

Put there by some low-level make-up artist scraping by to feed her drug habit.

He’s telling me:

"Seven people perished today in a plane crash in the deserts outside Los Angeles."

He says:

"The cause of the accident is still unknown."

His sparkling white teeth are reflecting the studio lights.

He smiles:

"We now take you live to the scene of some…"

His voice trails off as I walk into the kitchen.

I grab a glass and walk over to the sink.

"Local authorities are on alert after witnessing a man, of Middle Eastern descent, tampering with the local water supply. They urge residents to drink bottled water until they receive more information."

I look at his smug face.

This bastard of a man.

This all-knowing, omnipotent, bastard of a man.

How it must feel to know there is so much wrong in the world.

To be the bearer of bad news on a daily basis.

A manicured God.

Enlighten Yourself.

There is no absolute truth.

There is what society deems true.

And there is what I deem true.

When I use I, that is to mean everyone of us.

"God" can’t control me.

I am God.

We are God.

Government can’t control me.

We are the Government.

Truth is subjective.

What you may hold to be true (your religion, your morals, etc.) might not coincide with what I believe to be true.

Who are we to decide what a grown woman, with her own set of morals and her own beliefs, can do with a parasite (that’s what it is) growing inside her body.

Who are we to demand illegal aliens leave our country. For fuck’s sake, we hardly allow them the chance to register themselves. 

Who are we to sentence one man to death for taking the law into their hands when the law, which was established to protect and serve, fails?

And who the fuck are we to define love? 

Who.

Are. 

We. 

To.

Define.

Love…

Truth Is Subjective.

We use fear of an almighty bearded mother-fucker to control the people.

To form and solidify our laws.

To wage war.

We have what we, individually, believe to be right.

We are bastards on this Earth.

We have no father.

We have no rules.

Nothing

Is

Absolute.

I’ve lost all my friends to cityscapes and bank statements.

Hardwood floors and ever harder drugs.

We constantly push and push, hoping for that one ounce of acceptance.

Hoping the rest of society will look at us and say

"Good job, little buddy. Here’s that measly 401k you’ve been waiting for.

Here’s your social security check.

Here’s a trip to the Bahamas.

Don’t forget your sun-screen.”

We chase material dreams.

And we follow the doctor’s orders when those dreams burst into flames…

"Take one of these little yellow pills once every morning to help you cope with the fact that all your life you’ve been fucking around with fire…

and you’ve finally torched everything you considered home.

Don’t worry.

This’ll help you feel nothing.

Fuck everything.

Just sit there and watch everything burn down from the safety of your living room.”

We’re a society of pyros…

Incinerating everything we love

Just to feel an ounce of…

Anything.

Praying to God we make it out alive.

I’m slowly re-creating myself.

I’m searching deep…

deep…

deep…

Underneath the blotchy ink.

I’m tip-toeing past the shards of what used to be a heart.

I’m gutting myself.

Removing the worst parts that you left behind.

Rotting away.

A Famous Poet Once Said: “Your Love Is My Drug”

At first, this was something recreational. Something I used to escape the typical drag of day to day life.

Something I used to forget.

But slowly, like a needle pumping that black shit into my veins, you started to take control.

And it became something dangerous.

Something volatile.

Soon, I was giving up everything I had just to score something that almost resembled love.

It became painful.

Slowly, but surely, you worked your way through my tangled veins.

Snapping away at everything, with your hypodermic teeth.

You found your way to my chest…

You found your way into the only piece of me that I still had left.

And there was no fucking way you were going to get me.

So…

I locked myself up.

I locked myself up and

I swallowed that goddamn key.

“For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”

Mo’ Fuckin’ Bukowski.