Little Canoe

A muse like myself.

I should be happy with my little canoe. I mean, some people got yachts of grief, you know? Takes knowing miserable to stay floating on the happy. Like spoonfuls of old medicine, I guess we learn from our past. I mean, I do. I learn from my past.

I anxiously fear the day that I realize an old heroin addiction is passe, blase, and not enough fuel for the fire that is a writer's wellspring. Dip into that old self-hatred, those old balled up hands, closed up face, mouth slammed shut. Ugh.

Okay. Another day.