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 just wanted to sit down.
sit down and breathe.
i don't know where but i want to be alone too.
i'll let my mind roam,
get bigger and small again.
i'd forget about everything,
my life,
my worries,
my past,
my future,
everything,
i'd forget it all and breathe.
it'd be like the first moments when i was born,
unaware and unexpierenced of all the pain and hurt that i once knew.
i just want to sit down and forget.

I was being stalked by something large and threatening
foot falls behind me but there was no-one there
an uninvited guest to me he is beckoning
shimmering rings, rainbow his head in the air
I know Bigfoot looms large in swathes of shifting grey.
I'm above the clouds stood with my back to the sun
the dark figure motions to his trembling prey
"oh circular glory, to you I'm outrun
sat cowering beneath the Brocken Spectre
the circle was broken and the Grey Man walked free
was he a Troll or some Mountain Protector?
Oh! Hideous encounter, the Grey Man was me!