I like the works of Charles Bukowski. He reminds me of a wet cigarette in between your fingers as you try to keep the cherry from the rain.

The coffee is still shooting steam from its cover, and I am alone with my thoughts. They can lead you into madness.

I watch myself from twenty minutes ago, standing in the kitchen, that streak of venom I felt in my chest had started to burn. Where was that venom produced?

I suppose Charles Bukowski comes to mind when I’m feeling that red-hot emotion of rage. I’m the cherry on the cigarette hanging on for dear life as I’m being dragged on during a downpour.

I’m screaming on the inside, and it’s getting loud in my head. Where are the earplugs? How do I drown out the sound? How can I shut up the voices telling me to take the end of the cigarette and throw it into a pile of dried leaves so I can watch it burn?

Be quiet.

That’s the old you, remember her?

I guess I’ll write then…