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

m a y b e
may be
may (i) be
i (may) be
may i (be) May
(May): spr(i)ng and flowers and bees
(be)es
be (sweet)
be (here)

may i just be
may there always be room for me
between may and be.

You wear leather
As dark as your heart
You speak words
As sharp as a knife

You smell of cigarettes
And sometimes cologne
You wreak of Jack Daniel's
But mostly depravity

You lurk in the shadows
And prey on the young
You desire a girl
But only one night

You tell her your lies
To trick her to stay
And then like a coward
You run away

What are you waiting for the other?
Flowers opened.
recovery period
you don't know
contradictoriness

die-life

a collector
he is looking for the least
it is value

a writer
he writes the most unknown
it is the hardest

a bird
it is making own's nest
it is needed

a train
it is going on the railway
it is the road

i turn a blind eye
to my fears
but when it comes
to you,
i can't help but
stare

i don't know what
it is but there's
something cliche
that captivates me
completely
even if i despise
you more than
anything