Listening to ***** rap in class
Staring into the depth of my screen
Fast pace words and faster beats
Backdrop of rhythm making my feet tap
A swath of warm words wrapping me up off my feet

Thick thighs sitting in a small seat
Squeezing myself together
Compress my body into a small space
Make me thin
I'm pushing into my skin again
A small tear in the soft under belly of my arm
I want to tear my self apart
Silent screaming
Let me be thin

I've been trying to write for months
More desperate than junkies on city corners
Because the lines I write on my paper
Are better than the ones you take up your nose
Paper in this notebook is worth more than the paper that you brag about having on social media
You see I've taken to choosing words and phrases
Rather than choosing what strand to smoke next
Fancy words like abittor
Do more for me than Lysergic acid diethylamide
Withdrawls from pen and paper are worse than
Withdrawls from amphetamines
Being a writer
Is something you are never warned about
Because one day you will on top of the world
And the next day you will be on the edge
Just to get an adrenaline rush and motivation to write
Why do you think the best writers sucumb to alchohal stains, white noses, and scared veins
The best writer I know has shelves of prescriptions, like a library of books
My favorite poems are inspired not by writers lines, but rather lines I chop myself
Drinking your poems with ***** as a chaser
No one warns you about being a poet

This is a letter on account of that poem
You left in the hallway.
I was walking by, and I saw it on the floor
All torn into pieces, and well
I'm a sucker for puzzles.
Two nights ago, I spent almost two hours
Painstakingly placing the pieces in particular places on
The looseleaf
Well, I recreated your poem like the deepest lyrical anthropologist.
It's all glued and taped together now, and what an irony that it was only
Love poetry from ninth to twelfth grade.
The lines are not that bad, but a little trite,
Someday, the girlfriend and boyfriend you used to call yourselves
Will grow up and away and apart.
And I will never ask either of you why
You left your poem on the hallway floor in little shreds.
I could look you up, find you, I have your name after all...
But I would rather leave the story up to my imagination.
This is merely me expressing my appreciation for the puzzle
You left on the linoleum for me to solve.

Writers blovk is a **** block between pen and paper
I stole that line from a friend and I think she stole it from a writer
Writers block is so universal it even affects people who don't write
Pen to paper
All I want to do is write
I'm desperate to write about anything at this point
I'm trying to write a book
I've got fifty pages of pure poetry
And lines of future poems
I've said before I'm an unfinished poetry piece
and when I'm polished I will have skin made of stories told over centuries

The day Astrid fell in love with Mars was the day the beginning of the end started.