Reading Charles Bukowski poems. They will keep you honest. But honesty is a bitch when you’re employed and don’t hate your boss and don’t drink too much and don’t give a shit about women. Honesty is nothing. I think and feel nothing. Wake up, healthy breakfast, bike to the train, sit down and nod kindly at my fellow commuters. Open the laptop. An hour with no internet. A gift carved out of the day. Nothing comes out of your fingers because nothing’s there.
I don’t hate anybody. I don’t care about the government. Women are just women. They’re still out there, I still want them. But wanting to fuck some teenager on the street is so old now it’s like the weather. Nothing happens. I go to the gym. I’m unhappy that they got rid of all the good magazines. That’s the only emotion I feel in a day. Cook chicken and jerk off. Three dollar bottle of wine, fall asleep watching a movie. Nothing.
Having a normal life feels like waiting out the clock to die and even knowing that gives you nothing. People are out there writing things. Elaborate novels. Political screeds. They get pussy and make a living. But he’s right, that’s all nothing. Even these words about those things being nothing are nothing. If it isn’t exploding out of you then don’t do it, he says. Well what the fuck am I supposed to do then? Something’s gotta show up on the page. People need new words to read on the toilet. Take their mind off of work.
You need pain to make something. And it can’t be fake pain that you chase. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get hit by a truck.
delicioustacos 
Born like this
Into this
Dying because of this
Is it pain, or is it experience with pain being a part of it? Joy is not great without pain, neither is pain much to bother you without joy to compare it to.
When did you get so nihilist?
If nothing is anything anyways. Why don’t we meet again just for the hell of it?
“sunny days wouldn’t be special if it wasn’t for rain, joy wouldn’t feel so good if it wasn’t for pain”
-50 cent of all people
you should consider finding an easy, low-commitment volunteer opportunity. doing something good for which you do not directly stand to benefit is a clever way to divert even just a smidge of your attention away from the Narcissus pool of Depression. then again, happy, well-adjusted author’s don’t make Oprah’s book club, do they?
hope you find a way out.
Look into the abyss and the abyss stares back or some such similar sentiment.
Dude love your writing although it’s been a long time since I read Bukowksi. Does that make me ignorant, not really I just read other stuff – Marabou Stork Nightmares anyone?
Read somebody else’s writing advice then, geez. Stop worshipping at the alter of Charles Bukowski. Why don’t you just dig up his corpse and suck his maggot covered cock while you’re at it. I’m sure there’s a few bits of it left that haven’t completely decomposed.
Here ya go:
http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2013/05/03/advice-on-writing/