6:44 P.M.
I've got at least 5,000 poems to sift through. I look at the stack, and it's not very welcoming.
I'm thinking, "There's got to be some other way."
There is NO other way. Only I know what I wrote, and whom I wrote it about. If only I could remember the first line.
Reading through my own poetry should not be so draining.
I started sorting through the archives last night.
I found plenty about Nicky, The Red Neck Asshole, Krisco, James, and Vinny.
I should just burn these archives to disk and take them off this box. It's not like I'm going to use them for anything in the future.
I've almost convinced myself that I'm not even cut out for writing.
I try to tell myself there is no place for writing in my life, only to stay focused on the things that actually pay the bills around here.
Poetry doesn't pay the bills. I know this.
I�m not totally oblivious.
