Writing Garbage Just To Feed Myself and Pay The Rent

the keys stick when I type, the ink smudges on cheap paper, there’s an old man in the corner laughing through his dentures at my words. he knows, I know— it’s all garbage, all of it. writing the same worn-out lines, spinning circles around rent checks that will barely clear. this morning, the phone rang, and I thought it was hope— turned out to be another rejection letter in a different voice. I’m smoking old cigars that burn the fingers but not the mind, drinking coffee cold as winter in a can, wondering how I ended up here, writing just to keep the lights on. and that goldfish, it’s still there— belly-up in its bowl, not even a bubble left to prove it ever lived. I haven’t flushed it. I’ll keep it as a reminder, that we all float for a while before sinking. the landlord knocks again, the ashtray overflows.