You labeled us all dead
but who is in the coffin?
I must confess,
you confuse
me with your words
as often as you
inspire.
Who were you
in your drunkenness,
stumbling in the darkness
of what you saw?
The more I read your work
the more I want to know you
and the more I know you
the less I want to.
Writing about life
real life,
without fortune,
alcohol fueling genius
and pain.
I feel your words
you often seeing what I see,
knowing what I know
the dead surround us
are us.