to write is to live and to live is to go out and break the law find yourself sleeping hopelessly in a cold, lonely jail cell and clean your puke up off the floor when maggot infested bread gags in your throat, still sore from screaming at abusive prison guards it also helps to fight a horrid war to have shell shock, and post traumatic stress to be surrounded with blood and gore and to wake up every night with growing anxiousness in your chest because your wife canβt recognize the man she sent away anymore and even then, if words cannot simply pour out of your lips and fill the pages like spilt ink be meticulously observant, sit still, and think look into the white veins of a budding leaf how they look like itβs own mother tree and the roots beneath feel something- feel anything let your lonesome heart break over lost love let anger foam at the corners of your lips as you bark like a rabid dog let sadness speak softly, but bleed deeply like the slit wrists of a sorry suicide but most of all, just stay alive because living is pain and through pain, you write