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
He doesn't burn photographs He doesn't join therapy sessions He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes Nor he drown himself into alcohol He scratches his wounds daily And never let them heal He doesn't try to get rid of the pain Instead he let it grow on him He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears He feeds it with the manure of old memories He takes it to sleep with him And nurtures it in himself Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain Until his fragile heart can bear no more And his soul starts overflowing with emotions That's when he dip his pen into this pain And empty his heart on a piece of paper He bares his soul for us to feel He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come