A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

I forgot that it stung,
Silver against my skin.
But the tickle up my nose,
Makes me feel okay again.

My heart is still bleeding,
Unsuccessful with moving on.
Thinking of you under the night sky,
Staring blissfully until dawn.

Just a piece of metal,
That's stained with red and white.
Leading me to sweet pain,
And such a lovely high.

Flawless drops of red escaping,
While this addictive white dust is introduced to my brain.
My mind feels so beautiful,
And my whole body trembles.
Thinking of the taste of your neck,
While shivers run down my spine.

The bitter taste in my throat,
Masking the emotions I suppress.
Feelings of you keep swelling up,
So I do another line to tame them.
Your charming smile vanishing,
Replaced with lustful eyes.
Calming down my heart,
And filling up my mind.