It’s costing me more than a couple of grand
To pay off the legacy of adolescence.
Especially now that paydays are,
Like good shows on T.V.,
few and far between.

Memoirs of a writing fiend.

I’ll come clean.
I’m so poor the only thing seen
at my library scene is:
knapsacks full of Snapple cap facts.

And I dream of other people dreaming
because I can’t even afford to pay myself attention.

Cease my minds screaming as I smoke away the tension
and break this barricaded fence in
Just to fall face first into my unpaid bill collection.

These are, mem-oirs of a writing fiend.

At 23
the eminent future deemed for me
sadly
Looks like bankruptcy
mixed with pockets filled to the tips with nickels,
While paper burns gaping holes in my weeping wallet, as it woes.
No need for money-clips.

Some say saving’s so simple.
Man, I say it’s all in principal.

My pockets never felt invincible,
let alone tasted a wad of cash substantially past
the numerical interpretation of my weight divided by my mass.

So I ask… Will those knots of cash blast me into bliss?
Or cast me off into an abyss of petty materialistic ridiculousness?

My wish list consists of only debt elimination
Monetary weight off my shoulder situation
Is what,
I’m waiting for…
Because if they really want me to pay,
They’re gonna have to knock down my door.

So I sit in lotus position on my floor
sifting through my core.
Realizing all I am and ever will be
Are,
Memoirs of a writing fiend.