The Road is a Lonely Place When You're out of Whiskey and Your Bed is Empty

Every day is a constant struggle. With all of the doings and undoings.
My soul hasn't been breathing for a while now. I want to be at home
with my son in the sun. I am drowning in the gulf. In the sea of cell
phones, call times, politics, union dues, taxes, and cabs. Writer's
block is a killer. I can't reach my friends, and television ruins more
minds than drugs. John, Janis, Jimmy, Jim, and Jerry are all dead, and
I can't find any good music. All I can seem to write is hate poetry.
My hands are clenched in fists of rage. This fit! This cage! This
shrinking island I call Despair. Good guys always finish last. Then I
guess I'm the best there ever was.

- Benjamin D. Bain