"Don't tell me what people said about me,
Tell me why they were so comfortable telling you."

slipping into sleep,
laying my head,
on my pillow,
I imagine it
to be your chest.

the nights drift by.
finally, i find myself,
no longer,
having to pretend.

I don't have my pillow,
but I have you.
your embrace is warm,
and it puts me to sleep.

"Forgive me father,
For I have sinned"
I speak not of your god
But a being who believes he is
I must answer to he
Or I shall be punished
Forgiveness is not what I seek, per se
Freedom from his judgement
Is my craving

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 went out in the dust storm yesterday
Sepia clouds filling the sky, but just on one side
Dense clouds obscuring the east
Clear as day over the shoulder

In moments I was engulfed
And I said goodbye to the westward sun
As the grains of sand, one by one
Pelted me in the face

Engulfed in earth
Baptised by the world
Out of vanity is my unbirth
And I don't even flinch