I hate it.
For a musician,
Maybe it's fun. The beat.
To keep you alive.

But writing is just like *****.
That sometimes,
Spills out all night
After a terrible day.

All I want is sleep.
All I get is words puking out.
Sharp little hands crawling up my throat.
Scratching on my teeth.

So up I go. Fumbling for the lights.
Again.
In the dark.
To let them out.