I wrote 33 poems in one night. I drank nothing but 7-11 coffee and chewed on a cigarette that I told myself I didn’t deserve to light unless I got everything in my head down on paper. Normally, writing that much, and writing that well, would be the sign of a night that had gone wonderfully well; a night to be celebrated.
But it was one bad night.
You get confronted with yourself sometimes, whether you’re ready to or not, and sometimes when that happens, the image you get of dear old you, isn’t flattering or decent. That’s what happened to me. I saw myself, and I didn’t like how it looked, and I didn’t like thinking about how that person thought, and how he acted. So I went for a walk, got a coffee from the gas station, and told myself it was time to unload that motherfucker onto the paper.
He wasn’t going to get to stick around.
I feel better now, and all that remains of who I was that night is the fired off poems of a person stuck in a place they didn’t want to be, thinking things they didn’t want to think, and feeling awful about all of it.
I came out the other side of it though, with work. And when the sun came up the next day, and I stopped writing and lay on the couch among empty beer bottles, and typewritten poems to watch All In The Family, I felt like one bad night had been just what I needed. Regardless of how much it had hurt.