your love runs dry it always rains you’re the reason for my worst days the blues I choose the shades of gray you paint the sky on my darkest days I hate you most but I hate the way you’re still the sun on my perfect days
I wrote a story once And it had you in it The pain The confusion The talent You're scrapbook
And I swear I wrote you down 5 years ago And I didnt know
I didnt know my words had this much power And why did I write my and your life this sour
And this is a beautiful magical miracle But a curse in disguise I love this much power if I had power over my mind But I dont want this much power When a gray cloud is following my mind
And I wrote you I detailed your detail to the detail I swear I wrote you 5 years ago And I dont know what to do with that
I am driftwood on a sea of though. I am the sweet smoke from your mouth and the ashes that fall. I am ice that your too cold hands cannot melt. I am the truths unspoken. I am subtlety screaming to be noticed. I am raised flesh I am eyes wide open i am the insatiable hunger.
the gasp for air the bite mark the taste of laughter the scent of desire left behind, still lingering in the air, and burned in the brain.
Humanity i love you because you would rather black the boots of success than enquire whose soul dangles from his watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both
parties and because you unflinchingly applaud all songs containing the words country home and mother when sung at the old howard
Humanity i love you because when you’re hard up you pawn your intelligence to buy a drink and when you’re flush pride keeps
you from the pawn shop and because you are continually committing nuisances but more especially in your own house
Humanity i love you because you are perpetually putting the secret of life in your pants and forgetting it’s there and sitting down
on it and because you are forever making poems in the lap of death Humanity
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