Looking in the Mirror

woke up last night,

felt like I‘d been asleep for days,

looked at the clock,

only a few minutes had

passed;

sometimes even the truth

is just too hard to bear,

we are what we are,

that’s just a natural fact,

as inescapable as the

morning sun;

sooner or later, this road

always leads back to here;

I've been to the end and back,

but it doesn't mean a thing,

because it always come down to this,

sometimes it makes me wonder,

what the point really is,

when it just goes round

and round;

I like things that are real,

Charles Bukowski and Johnny Lee Hooker,

things which are natural,

wolves and Native Americans,

I hate smooth talking poets,

and slick playing musicians,

things which pass themselves off

as the real deal,

when they are not,

perhaps this is the reason

I never learned to like myself.

.

.