Writing poems
With the ink of my tears

I am drawn to him
in the way
I don't understand.
I don't need to see him.
His voice only gives me
goosebumps.
And now I can handle the pain.
It's his voice in my head
Reminding me of how long
I've handled it,
that haunts me.
My heart hears nothing but
audible gold from his mouth.
So now I know
that I don't need much
from my life.
Just need to hear his voice;
sometimes.

A Fragment of happiness
in my life.

Your voice is beautiful
As a Melody composed on heartstrings.
Washes away my pain
and rein in my mood-swings.

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