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

You say I'm Beautiful, gorgeous, breathtaking,
You say you could write an entire essay about my beauty.
Maybe it's true, maybe it isn't.
The point is,
You say all these nice things,
And all can think is it's too much.

You tell me I'm amazing,
with that smile of yours,
and I should be lit up inside;
but I'm just scared.

You talk about our future,
like it's something that's set in stone,
like we're forever.
And I should be amazed that anyone one make that commitment,
but I'm still scared.

You've done this before,
and, every time,
you fall for her.
That girl who is perfect in every way.
They are your world, your everything.

This time,
I am that girl;
and it's scary,
it's too much,
and I feel like I'm;
          drowning,
                   drowning,
                             drowning.

What can I do?
Wait for you to go?
That's the simple answer, yes.
But is it the right one?