it's a bit cold I'm sitting by the margin of the river Fishing A bit upset There were too many fish who escaped my nets I sigh throw 'em again wait I catch one pull it out and stomp on its golden head rip it apart from the body and drink its blood ... Yeah, bullshit I'm sitting in the office night shift supervising casinos through CCTV cameras it's 05:53 and I'm ignoring work to write poems like this one and something always comes up and makes me forget my ideas The phone rings Some customer causes trouble in some casino Some other customer is suspected of cheating A bouncer falls asleep on his chair due to lack of activity The game attendant flirts with a customer There's a bill fallen on the floor and I've to determine its owner A bunch of idiots are being too loud Some other idiot keeps demanding alcohol but his bets ain't worth shit and so on and on and on And the goldfish escape through my fingers and the eyes of my nets are too wide and that just sucks, man It really does But I pick myself up and tell myself what I always tell myself A writer writes A writer writes A writer writes Just like a fisherman fishes And you don't stop because the catch is rickety You continue because of it
Yep, I know I’ve the voice of a 96 year old man on his deathbed despite being in my 20s. Also my pronunciation’s all over the place due to lack of practice (English ain’t my 1st language). But behold I got drunk and silly one afternoon and told a few friends about my poetry blog. You know how these things end up. Here I am now recording my own voice — with intonation, mind you — reading my poem.