A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

This world is a hub of noise
Literally..just junk and noise
Sometimes I fail to see Gods plan in all of this
I mean.. What is the point of this cycle
This unending cycle of junk and noise
How do you make sense if this trash
How do you not want to burn this cycle
Regard it as a prototype and start over again.

But there is a certain beauty to it
Watching nothing.. Absolute nothingness create a spectacle ,a wonder to behold
And then realizing that nothing is something.


-Ayo_daViber