a cheap poem

I think the iage can be a metaphor for relationships I have with special people. I write all over it. My own ideas. My own thoughts and opinions. My own fucked up ego, scratching it all out, or altering it the way I want it. People who inspire me are few. Very, very few. The day I send them running, the day they clear out, I realize: having them in my life was a fucking bargain! Them! Great Ones! What valuable contribution to my soul/mind/heart/cunt/life/art!  And there I go and send’ em running. Idiot. I do call myself that…way too often.

Image reblogged from here

07