A grown man walking down into the bushes by himself. I wonder what his sick little fetish is. He wonders what my sick little fetish is. Maybe beating off into the open air sunlight, watching my cum shoot off and splash into the green water. sick stringy disgusting.
Nowadays anyone can publish anything they want, no matter how shit it is. "Push-Button Publishing" they call it and now all the trash, that the last generation's poets or Charles Bukowskis would have just crumpled up or burned into nothing, ends up here. You read it. I feel important. Everything seems like art because I can get away with it, because nobody holds me accountable, no editor to tell me it's worthless.
Having this blog doesn't make my writing worth any more, it just makes it seem that way.
No comments:
Post a Comment