I am a poet. I have been, since as long as I can remember. I formally started writing poetry at the age of 14, inspired by the death of my hero, John Lennon. Prior to that, my best friend and I wrote song lyrics about silly crushes we had on boys in elementary school. I guess that’s when the poetry really started. I have self-published three books of poetry that really didn’t sell. I mean, friends and family bought them, but I am totally clueless how to market to the public. I didn’t make much money nor did my words travel very far.
Today I woke up on the sofa again. I feel safety and comfort in the corner of the sofa surrounded by pillows and my two cats. I leave the television on so the voices make me feel less alone. I go to the kitchen and make the first of many cups of coffee. I can use a box of K cups in one day. This box has 12 cups in it. I count my cigarettes because I am virtually penniless and don’t know how I’ll even buy my next pack. I contemplate quitting cigarettes but my current state of turmoil won’t let me. I wrack my brain trying to figure out how I’ll get through another day without money. It’s so isolating to feel this bad and have no one who understands, no one who can even deal with your presence because you have absolutely nothing left to give.