Writing is, as most hobbies are, an art when taken seriously. Perfect practice makes perfect works. Don't just write a poem or a blurb...

Wrap the vines around the ankles, pull apart the pelvis until it cracks like a pistachio. Take the loosened intestines and wring them out quickly. Lob the liver high in the air and smack it away on its way back down. Creep up the exposed vertebrate as you fish through the guts and flesh. Watch as the skin looses color, and emotion fades with last breath. Itch your fingers through the fluids, crack apart the spine. Work to the nook of the back, where hands fit snugly in hugs before. Punch holes with your nails, and tickle the lungs from asunder with your teeth. Bite and claw through the chest like a bullet through a milk jug. Feel the blood run cold now, for you've been at this for a while. Push the shoulder bones out of place, since they need not be there anymore. Feel the bone grind and pop, smooth without resistance. Watch the arms flop lifelessly and inhumanly away from what was once a body. Creep up the esophagus like a bad acid, tearing and destroying. Reach the mouth, and cut the tongue. Lob it too with the liver. Break teeth, and crack cheekbones. Finally, wriggle into the skull, wrapping around the brain, and squeezing until it falls through your hands like raw beef from the fresh chopped cattle.

Don't just write. Be wretchedly beautiful.