So I’ll tell you why I write.
I write because I’m the protagonist of my own stories.
I write because in my stories, I solve the problems that invariably creep up between people and I
In the most heroic ways possible
I write because in my world,
Not every rainbow ends in a *** of gold
But sliding across its multicolour will be the happiest memory in your mind
I write because my stories are clouds that do have real silver linings
I write because 3 am is time for chai, and childhood stories
Impromptu bike rides to greet the sleeping night
But all I can do is write.
I write because I’m angry and frustrated but
you asked me not to turn my anguish onto my body
and leave battle scars for the world to question -
so I write instead.
I write because sometimes,
the tumult in my head comes from
words that are struggling to spill forth from my brain
and stain empty pages with their loud meaning.
I write because
Writing is the only way I have to make sense
of this messy world we live in.

He said that he doesn't like the way she is,
That she needs to relax a little bit.
"How do you do that?"
She asked.
"One drink at a time,"
He answered.

And as the alcohol coursed through her veins,
She began to fall in love with the sound of his name.
And in the heat of the hot summer nights,
They were always together,
It just felt right.
But soon summer was over,
The fun was all done.
Before she knew it,
He was gone.

She waited and waited,
For some sort of sign,
That it wasn't over,
But it was the end.
The summer love had died.

People told her to forget him,
That he wasn't coming back.
He was nothing but trouble,
She didn't need that.
"How?"
She asked.
And they replied with "One drink at a time."

And as the alcohol she sipped burned her throat,
She slowly began to learn how to let go.
You don't get over someone by crying tears,
You get over them by downing shots and sipping beers.

When told to write a sonnet, I must confess
I truly knew not what to write on
Shall I speak of boundless joy, or lament all loneliness?
Shall I compare a rose to death, or they smile to the dawn?
Shall I write in purple words
About that which I hold dear
And let them fly, like nimble birds,
To alight upon thine ear?
I might speak of an endless ocean and call it love
I might speak of a burning city and call it hate
I might speak of peace and call it the wing of a dove
I might speak of many things, but still mine hand doth hesitate
Perhaps I shall not write today
It seems that I have nothing to say

it's the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here's a ****
and here's a ****
and here's trouble.

only each time
you think
well now I've learned:
I'll let her do that
and I'll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some ***
and only a minor
love.

now I'm waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.

I hope that death contains
less than this.

Its not a bad life
just a bad day
so get high
because the world
is too low