WRITE DAMN YOU

Halloween 2008, no costume, bearded, unaware and surprised

I keep telling myself that
to be a writer requires that I
actually spend time writing
and not thinking about it.

But I will not put finger to
keyboard or pen to paper
just to get a word count
for some content hog.

Fuck that
I will not make a job
out of my last remaining
passion.

People are depending
on me working this shit job,
but it drains the life out of me,
drives me to drink.. and more.

Then you look at me in
the mirror and wonder why
I look like shit, feel like shit
and sound like shit. (I am shit)

The fact of the matter
is that I AM A WRITER.. a failing
writer who has no ambitions,
not even to write.

Someone once said I was too young
to write.. haven’t lived enough to know
love and loss, death and heartache..
I wish I could use that excuse.. I do.

When I am not writing, I live and see and know
the story keeps going on, I watch it unfold
before my eyes, hear the narrator as
he describes the scene for the readers.

Then he leans in closer,
reeking of alcohol and with
drug crazed eyes he says,
“Stop staring at yourself in the fucking mirror and WRITE DAMN YOU!”

-Lewis Applequist 2008

apartments

I miss my apartments
It’s as close as I can imagine
city life could be for a boy in
Alabama.

Now living in the ‘country’
even with neighbors next door there’s
no socializing.
I am so bored.

I miss all the friends,
the sounds, the sirens,
the shouting and hell
yes, I miss the fights.

Give me Pinecrest or
Colonial Acres any day,
you can keep your lawns
and your fucking fences.