Looking in the Mirror

woke up last night,

felt like I‘d been asleep for days,

looked at my clock and,

only a few minutes had passed by;

sometimes even the truth,

is too hard to bear,

but we are what we are,

and that’s 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,

and it sometimes 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,

like 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 why

I’ve never learned to like myself?

.

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