Writers and Poets

We knights of broken sleep

Are we masters?

Or servants?

Foot soldiers

Willing slaves to the word

a heart:
i see i have made plenty of poets
but not so very good
poetry

a ****:
i see i have made plenty of poetry
but not so very good
poets

from time to time
the idea of writing down
everything i feel
sickened me

To Love a Writer
you must be brave,
eager to read
the words
you would rather
hear.

To Love a Writer
you must be prepared,
for days hidden
from the sun,
a symptom of
the disease.


To Love a Writer
you must be crazy,
ignore the insomnia
and fight
for attention
at night.

but know this ..

If a Writer Loves You,
their Love is complete,
you are amazing to them,
they will dream
of you often,
in ink forevermore.

I never thought I was the only one

A single ripple among a thousand more

Breaking the surface of the ocean

Not the brightest star to grace the sky

Where millions try to shine

I never thought I was the only one

But I had no idea that there were quite so many fish

Swimming in a crowded pool of words!

writers can have a writer's block
they may end up as a skeleton
sitting at a desktop, holding a pen
take a picture of the soul, survive

looking at it kills every distraction
listen to the indecisive winds; they float
in each nutshell is another nutshell, right?
a letter will cause more letters, won't it?

the picture of the soul: take it
walk through the ruins of the night
watch stars rolling over heavens
don't think about your inner, don't think

the horizon of fear swallows poems
poems that have never existed
the horizon of fear is a writer in disguise
poets will never be able to spot this creature

sometimes, we want to write a lot
sometimes, we want to write less
take a picture of the soul and go on
come on: take this picture, my friend

the ruins of the night are made of letters
skinny letters will grow into heavy words
words become verses and they transform
come on: take this picture, my friend

a picture of the soul kills all the ghosts
write about it and let go, heaven and hell yeah!
vampires and writers adore the ruins of the night
a blank desk, now covered with words and muse

this poem doesn't have an end but a final
i am sending you these letters, here they are
chaos quietly rages in rivers of newness
take a picture of the soul, take these letters, friend

Staring at blank pages
Wanting to write again
Staring at my phone
Hoping for a friend

At least out of this
I've gotten one of two
For I could write a thousand pages
Before I could count on you