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

Feel I do
Feel like a serial killer at times
Fingers of mine tensing
Carotid arteries of an analogy
Squeezing warmth out of dead bodies
Of psalms into
Saying a prayer
Even though I'm agnostic
In case
And drastically overstating my case
Tasking a metaphor to
Gasping last breath blue
On the edge of a cliff
Just push over
The blood of the simile
Dripping
The flesh
rotting dead on a rock
The dangling dread
circles above
Overhead like
Vultures
I do

She
refuses
To reside
Inside
anyone’s
Solace
Especially
her own
She’s a
rare rose
With
the thorns
Still attached
She walks
a fine line
Somewhere
Along the line
Between pain
And fine wine
She always
found the time
And
Courage
To shine

Together again
truly happy
I smile
Your face illuminated

Our bodies know
That time will run out
soon
Furious intensity of
potent love
sates each others passion

The night disappearing
towards dawn
we slip into sleep
exhausted