It’s the kind of morning that lets me know death isn’t such a bad thing.
Its cold the world is peaceful minus the neighbors that never seem to mind polluting the environment with their noise.
I am alone I will be so until my death.
It is poetic in its nature and a brutal truth sold as art.
Writers are all whores, broken people beautiful in there flaws.
There is something I admire even in the ones I hate.
I know I chose this road.
I view others lucky enough to share their lives.
I pity there partners and wonder are all other writers as screwed up as myself?
I am in love with the page and nothing more. .
Never make that mistake in reading my words.
I woke up empty as always.
I decided to crack a beer instead of pour a cup of coffee.
I drank until I passed out then awoke at midnight to pen what you are reading now.
I poured a cup of coffee and slipped a shot of bourbon in the mug to keep it company.
Art is a selfish mistress.
Writing is a endurance race.
I seemed like a train wreck to the outside world.
And to other writers I was simply John.
We are all fucked up to a certain degree.