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 can’t 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 it’s 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