Limp Dick

So it seems that my creativity is suffering from limp dick syndrome. And the only kinda Viagra it responds to is Jameson. To cut the shit and make it short and sweet I seem to be your typical alchi who can't produce jack shit unless intoxicated. See I wasn’t always like this, Dear Diary, I was a sweet and simple child who made rainbows and butterflies, but the Jameson entered into my life and I learned what it was to REALLY make shit...or did I. Who knows. See the thing with drinking is that I forget to be scared in front of my canvas or whatever the hell pathetic piece of medium it is that I’m working with. When I'm drunk, It's All Good. I can't fuck up, and if I do, I don’t care, and if anybody says anything, well fuck 'em. I'm just your average Picasso when I’m drunk. But see the thing is that it actually is good. Its better then I could have hoped, its better then you could have hoped, shit its the best yet to come. So when I’m sober I look at what I’ve previously shit out and think "well, shit, you aint gonna’ make an honest piece of work like that again unless you got nothin’ to lose". See making art is a lot like gabbling, but to an extreme. You put everything you got out on the table; you lay down all your cards. If you lose your fucked, cuz this just aint your cards they’re judging, its you, its your fucking work, its a piece of your soul. Call me a fucking old fashion romantic with my head up my ass I don’t care, that’s how I make my shit and people seem to dig it. So if you think I’m full of shit then stop reading the damn blog, fucker. Back to looking at the previous work that I made while drunk. Well, the problem is, bucko, that I can’t afford to be that honest when I’m sober, its too much of a risk. I don’t know why, I got a couple demons in my closet perhaps, but who the fuck doesn’t, sue me. And shit maybe it’s just a good fucking excuse for me to be an alchi, I don’t know. All I know is that if I don’t have that Jameson I got a creative limp dick. Aint that a shame. Now look I aint no Bukowski, in any sense of the word other then that I like my drinks a little stronger then my heart, cuz I aint got a lot of heart. No in fact maybe I don’t have a heart, maybe it just fucking slipped away with the rest of the bullshit I spit to ignorant fools thinking I make some kinda’ godamn sense. No I don’t got no goddamn heart, I gave that shit away. I figure we already got too much baggage to carry around why carry around one more damn thing that we are gonna’ give away to some asshole in the end anyway. You show me one fucker with a heart and I’ll give you their weight in gold. Shit don’t exist. Going to my main point of making art. Well it’s all in connected anyway. See I ain’t got no heart so I make it with my soul, and my soul only likes to talk when it’s got a little somethin’ in return. Greedy little bastard. Shit the problem is that we are all just wandering, some just don’t know they lost.