I've been at it for 13 hours in whisky and whining
I'm afraid
I speak more to the poets here than my own blood
And everyone is ready to leave
I handled a divorce better
If you all go
I go
What is this FUCKERY?
A joke?
Punishment?
Please fix it back
Most poets don't like change because no change for us has ever been for the better
Some of you, I've written with, cried with, spoken with, and yes
LOVED
for years
You go,
I go
You jump ship
I jump ship
I ******* LOVE you all

I've discovered Hell, and the truth is,
It isn't a place you go, it's a sickness.
It resides within your bones
And its scaffolding is made from trauma.
The only fire you'll find is from the white-hot flashbacks
That leave you drenched in sweat that smells like smoke.
No-one lives there except you and your enemies,
And your enemies are fragments of history, unable to be killed.
Your mind is the devil that subjects you to punishment
That you can't help but be convinced that you deserve,
And escape is a notion kept only for tears;
Everything else remains trapped.
Hell is being held within the cage of your own body
And killing yourself trying to break free.