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 Sep 2020 FairlyCultured
Ally Ann
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
There are galaxies inside of me
waiting to be explored.
There are stories to be told that leave you wanting more
there are religions in the chaos of my mind
but I am blind to all the possibilities,
fed by science’s facts
the love in my heart set on targets I will never reach
the knowledge I will never preach
the words I won’t speak
but I am the madness
the chaos the light the order the darkness
I am the shadow of a prophet
a wizard’s fairy tale...
 Jul 2020 FairlyCultured
 Jul 2020 FairlyCultured
is it just me
or does everyone sometimes go to their poems page
sort by most popular
and admire your own work
We all want it
But we haven't got any
Having it makes you free
Or else you're a slave to society

If you have some
You can go around the world
If you have a lot
The world goes around you

What good are you,
O'penniless pauper
In a society full of money
And devoid of love
How pleasant is to have money heigh **!
              -- Arthur Hugh Clough
 Jul 2020 FairlyCultured
 Jul 2020 FairlyCultured
maybe the universe
was so messed up
that it made us believe
we could fix
each other's heart.

I already posted this piece using my other account.
I'm planning to delete that account, so I'm gonna transfer all of the poems I posted there to this one I'm using right now. lol
You can tell a Lie

Only when

You know the Truth.
The contours of
jutting bones refuse to
move. Poverty repeats.

Questions. Untouched
remains human behavior
of caged parrots.

Would you spare
some time to read lines
on the face of Sun?
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