"If I had any real balls, I'd be a poet."
- Daniel Woodrell
That line has become my mantra.
Every day when I sit down to write, it's the first thing that pops in my head. Because the act of writing, creating a story, novel, screenplay, whatever, it takes balls. .But being a poet ... well, you know going in that you're creating art for art's sake, and you have to admit, there's something noble about that.
Noble and maybe just a tad bit masochistic?
Anyway, for my 5-2 Blog post, I figured I'd get my narcissism and masochism on, and post a new poem.
Hope you like it.
How I Know She Loves Me
She squeezes my hand,
and palms me the twenty.
It's grimy, slick with sweat
She moves to kiss me,
but I avoid her lips,
And guide her to my rough cheek
because of the cold sore.
My beard causes it to seep,
she flinches as she pulls away.
I tell her I'll be right back,
we both know that's a lie.
I head out just as she leads
the old perv into the ladies