Before I Can Become a WriterDevelop insomnia. DevelopMore Like This
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitable,
the way my family never
loved me right, the way my
first kiss was regrettable
at best, the way my therapist
says my depression is a demon
taking over me. Cry for the
changeable, the way
I hate my body and my writing
and everything I live to be.
Use clichés. Live clichés,
breathe clichés, be
a cliché. Write a poem
Life is a battle...A battle from your very first to your last breath.More Like This
You shall not surrender to your persistent bullies,
Draw your sharp blade against these unremitting demons
Fight till they learn you're worth living on this inhospitable Earth.
The diamond armor of your personnality to protect against their noisy scythes.
On this muddy battlefield where darkness swallow the most quiet souls
Never give up until the bleeding moon crushes on your cowardly foes.
Once you'll climb this tough and lonely phase of a living
You'll hear the distant victorious warbling,
And ultimately affirm you can finally live as a human being.
Anxieties of a Conflicted IntrovertI.More Like This
[i don’t want to
have to tell you i’m
lately it’s been tough.
And i’m stricken with this feeling that
maybe i’m not good enough.]
you see, somewhere out there
birds are looking for nests and birds
are finding them in the ribcages of souls but i
am tired of picking straw from my heart
and strings and hair that wrap around my fingers i’m—
[well sometimes i’m
but i never wanted to tell you that]
--tired of seeing the ball i wind from
those leftover nests grow and grow—
[and i want more, want more, but
sometimes there’s only so much my heart can hold]
my life is a tree c