sometimes
i refuse to
write poetry
because inspiration
only comes from
sad
times

this realization
makes me
even
sadder

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 think of you often
Do you think of me too?
You're probably just busy
I don't want to bother you.

I find myself reaching
For the friendship we had
But I'm left grasping at nothing
And this makes me sad.

Our talks lately are empty,
Shallow and subdued
I don't know what I've done
To make our friendship come unglued

I think of you often
Do you think of me too?
I just want to say
I'll always be here for you.

Tired eyes,
Half smile,
Sly confidence.

Not trickery,
But captivation.