The beauty of writing like this, out into the evening to you my strangers
Is that I can write the most reckless, drunken lines without a care for their truth
Knowing that I’ll wake tomorrow to the horror of them
Lines that have no foundation, no authority, a hair’s breadth from insanity
Saying things like “I don’t give a damn about your life, how or when it ends
Only that before you die you live a moment of it as if owning it all
Knowing that every voice, every beauty, every poem be yours.”
Constant Voice 