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’ve lived my entire life believing that Home is building A place where you get creative with all your fancy decorations your fancy candle chandelier lightings A place where I can cook all my fancy gourmet meals While watching my big fancy television A place with my fancy four car garages where I can park my fancy toys Enter , live and lock my fancy twelve foot doors As I spent all my fancy earnings Then with a snap of my fingers one morning I got wised up I realized I was wrong the entire time Those fancy things aren’t what truly makes a home at all I was wrong I was broke wrong Home is the space in between your heart Home is wherever I’m with you Home is wherever love resides , memories are created like Instagram photos filling up your heart And where laughter never ends.