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