Looking in the Mirror

woke up last night, felt like I‘d been asleep for days,

looked at the clock and only a few minutes

had passed by, sometimes even the truth

is just too hard to bear, but we are what we are,

that’s just a natural fact, as inescapable

as the morning sun;

sooner or later, the 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,

it makes me wonder what the point really is,

when it just goes round and round;

I like things that are real, Bukowski, 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’ve never learned

to like myself.

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