Being my other soul
would you go for-
a saddest kiss with a gold fish?

Nothing else matters.
Weaving blue flesh on
starched bones.

What else you need,
when the moon cries outside
the broken window?

And the sands and
palms and cacti had the
guts to take in trifecta.

And the blood
to remember the affinity
with the unknown.

The night is coming my love.
My hand grows weak.
A life spent fighting the twisted darkness.
So many things wasted.

Eternity comes for me soon.
In my soul sits a mountain of words,
that remain unsaid.

So many regrets in these last hours.

If only you could know my heart.
If only you could know everything.
If only you could know...
If only...
............

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