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

It's funny how you're not here and yet the first person I think of,
When I wake up,
Is you.

It's annoying when every single thing,
Even a random word,
Reminds me of you.

Is this healthy?
I can't tell,
But it's pretty overwhelming.

I shouldn't beat myself up but that's exactly what I do,
When I realize,
That I've been thinking of you.

Not that it's a bad thing,
Unless I think of you so much,
It causes brain damage.

But I know that if you think of me,
As much as I think of you,
Then I wouldn't mind being a vegetable,
With you.

it comes and goes
no clear pattern
no clear reason
it's here one moment
then gone the next

there's so much
I want to say
but i don't know
how to say it
how to get it out

it's stuck within me
trapped, yearning
for an escape, a glimpse
of what the world might be like
if i knew what to do

but the thing is
i don't know what to do
nobody really knows
what they're supposed to do
what i'm supposed to do

here i sit
tapping out words
trying to focus my feelings
into something that
can be understood

understood
not just by
the people who
happen to see it
and make my numbers rise

but no
understood
by me
because i don't understand
myself

in my life
i've been creative
and changed who i am
to fit who i was
"supposed to be"

acted happy because
i was too young to be sad
acted amused when
it was the wrong time
to be depressed

acted strong
when it was stupid
to be weak
acted mature
when i was still just a kid

but now
i'm not creative enough
to write
or to act
and i don't know who to be

i know what i want
but is it what i want,
or is it only  
what i'm supposed to want?

how come
when it came to
pretending to be
someone else
it was so easy

but now
that i'm trying to discover
who i am
i cannot?
who am i?

i don’t know why i think of you
like a lot
but you’re one of my favorite things
that i catch myself thinking of
when i’m not paying attention in class