Was I to know thee then

As I surely know thee now

I would have loved thee better

As a sweetness on my brow

You shielded me with dull rapture

From mannered sympathy

You kept me in oblivion

A prison of self pity

Then, lo, a bright and shining light

As though a guiding star

Illumined all my senses

Its rays reached to my heart

It woke me in a forest

It made my thirst be plain

It wrenched me from my revelry

It showed me lying slain

At your dear feet, Dysfunction

A smile on my face

That only comes from sweet repose

A satisfying place

I thought, “What am I doing here,

Lying at Death’s door?

Crying, 'Let me enter!

Let me rest upon your floor!'”

A life was kindled in my soul

I never knew before

It snatched me up and, on my feet

And bid me, “Go! Make war!”

“Against your friends and allies

Those who kept you dead

Take the Light of Life to them

Take them Living Bread.”

“Tear them from their darkened plight

Break their bonds asunder

Do not take indulgent rest

Do not fail or blunder!”

“Plow the fields and harvest souls

For some there is no tomorrow

That they, like you, might see the Light

Or face eternal sorrow.”

Yes, Dysfunction, my old, dear friend

You are now my enemy

And all you hold within your grasp

I seek to set them free

I bid farewell forevermore

To the restless rest you gave

I clearly see my slumber there

Simply, lying in my grave

My writing is careless at best. I rarely proofread or plan. Usually, I spit some shit out on the page and hope for the best. I wish I could say it's some artistic choice to show the frailty and imperfections of existence, but it's really that I lack discipline. I guess it's a bit like fucking. Give it all the hell you have in the moment of inspiration, but you know you could have done so many things better if the goal was perfection rather than getting lost in the moment. I guess that means a typo is like knocking on the wrong door. Just laugh at yourself and keep at it and embrace the joys of imperfection. As long as the closing sums up intention the reader is left satisfied. So my shits unrefined as hell, but I like to think there's a certain beauty and innocence flowing within my awkward wordings and forced lines or conclusions. When inspiration hits, just spit it out and move on. Wait for the next time a moment cracks you open enough you feel it's worthy of sharing. Repeat. So ya, a lot like fucking.

Inside my brain is a universe.

It could be two or three, really,

There are enough planets and galaxies.

It's enough space to get lost in,

or scare someone off.

If I wrote for writers, I would

Describe the world, in so much

Detail it would scare away

Almost anyone without a universe

of their own.

When I write for readers, I

Instead condense it into simple

Forms, easy to understand and

With only as much detail as

is truly needed.

When I write for myself,

The words seem to come

Off the page, wrap around

My mind, into three-

dimensional life.

To write for my readers is

To cut myself short, to

Abridge my characters and

Their lives, to give but an ounce

of what's happening.

But I guess

That just means

I need to write

More books, not

Longer ones.