To play the heartstrings plays a song only we can hear,
To love the artist of words,

Every string you pluck,
Becomes our canvas.
Make us cry,
The world will read.

To love a writer,
Is to publish your deeds.

I came empty handed
and that is how I will go.
The soil where I am planted
is where my memory will grow.

To cry for help in an empty room,
To slit a wrist with a notebook page,
To try to chase away the gloom,
To try and try, but things don't change.

To live and die not knowing why,
Happiness you never felt,
Lets only your wishes slide,
Into drainpipes of contempt,

To laugh at your own demise,
To let irony build a wall,
To make sarcasm as sharp as lies.
To let hate warm up your soul.

To **** the one for he feels better,
To **** yourself because you're worse,
To not know why you're doomed to shatter,
To truly hate the universe.

To live and die, not knowing when,
The laughter will turn into screams,
And fill your heart with a calming sense,
When my nightmares are your dreams.

To who is he a hypocrite?
The boy who wanted distance,
from love,
from expenditure.
A boy who thought of himself not
only as a man.
life's game seemingly
far too easy.
And with the lies for desire of
distance,
of love and expenditure,
comes obsession of
garments, and poison
and desperate lips.
Hypocrisy is the causation of his loneliness.

i am here because of words. we all are
i suppose; every word in this book combined tell how
i was born and raised and cried when
i was two because my brother got more attention than
i did. they are countless stories counted with three-hundred-thousand-something words
i can find in this dictionary that
i hold in my hands, and
i think maybe, atlas would be proud.

I've spent too much time taking.
Too much time breaking.
Too many nights in the cold, alone,
shaking.

I've spent too much time keeping,
long hours weeping.
Fighting off demons that are constantly
creeping.

But I will do this no longer,
I can be stronger,
Now's time to toss the junk that's making me
somber.

It's a wholesale clearing,
an escape from the fearing.
There's a new me a-coming, my spirit is
cheering.

So now I'll stand and surrender,
Move from hoarder to sender,
and open this new chapter in all of its
splendor.

I am a writer who hates whiskey.

I feel that I should love it like a writer's only friend,
Like I should sip it from a glass while I scribe with broken pens,
Like I should clink the ice against the sides and swirl it, deep in thought,
And take it neat and raw, in admiration of its steely course.
It should lubricate the mind and guide the flow of words to page,
And since a nervous age I've yearned to say I love the way it burns and maims,
And maybe on a certain day, I'll glug it without choking, breathless,
But for now it hurts my brain to even think about its... smokey wetness.

I've idolized an archetype, a writer with a harmful life,
Sit alone in bars at night, lament the fact that art is strife,
But recently I'm thinking more, and honestly, this can't be right,
I love the pen and paper, and I love the fact it's hard to write.
It's the way that I've romanticized it, fantasized and glamorized it,
Like I could just forget about a novel, let Jack Daniel's write it,
While I sat and focused on my magnum opus, penning parts of it in prose,
I viewed my present like it's hindsight, through glasses tinted rose.

Inside a forest of my own making
where the vines are merciless and though dreams may die the evergreen awakens

I must be patient,
and follow the voice at my core

through these arches, roots, through the self-made distrust
that manifests as branches sharp enough to divide me
so I’m on guard like a sentinel

You think you’ve been starved of serenity
well I have a Chimera’s hunger and a sage’s mind

a lethal combination
and I'm killing more than time
I’m after my former self
since I need a rebirth and some revenge
because that man wasted centuries caught in vicious cycles

when the key to escape was right there between two temples.

I’m watching
My happiness
c
   r
     u
       m
          b
             l
               e

and

F
A
L
L

a  p  a  r  t

In front of me.