She wrote novels on paper napkins. Sometimes she scribbled on newspapers that the men in suits left behind and made her own poetry with the crossword templates on the back. She wouldn’t make a penny writing. If anything, she was losing pennies. That’s why they trust her art. Her poor, dirty, beautiful art.

Many more looked around at happy and unhappy things alike, left the room, and agreed to the pen. It’s a weird occasion, writing is. It appears as peaceful, silent years of nothing, but implies the valor of someone fighting a lifelong monster. To decide to wield the pen is a win with no victory. But some lines of theirs were more important than satisfaction. What is a bookshelf but a place for us to see all the nights our dearest of friends did not see their own?

I wrote a poem about happy times with a lady,About how nice it feels to love and laugh like crazy,But there is after all a pen in my hand and not her hair.All happy stanzas have a sad air.

A writer = a worried person picking up a pen, in the face of death, writing to unlimited strangers to say, “Look!

To see love and sacrifice, stand before a bookshelf. To feel love and sacrifice, pick a book and open it. To love and sacrifice, add one.

Live in the stretch.Extending your limbs out,In a burn, in a hollow trespass,Tremoring, a second away from a shout,And keep going after it hurts-- the animal won't.Live in the stretch.It is the only way to know anything in the dark.It is the only way to feel on fire.The animals eat well, but we can pass the mark.And if beavers land on the moon, this poem has expired.

We will always be tired, stressed, Processing a tragedy, and/or a little hungry--Like a wild animal, in the middle.The soul comes to play in what we choose to do after.

I tried to book a flight to her mind, but I'm not on the list.And now I'm terminal: I'm breathing brandy.I've incorporated another tally mark on my wrist. I get my vitamins in: colored capsules I call candy.Life is just a bunch of dashes-- Interrupted sentences with no finish line.But at least if you wet your eyelashes,You can get a cinematic look in life.

The Day:Wondering if I’m mental Wondering if you are Stretching my spine Masturbating then hating it Falling in love on aisle 12 Acting tough in public Singing in the shower Lotioning my untouched body Fretting about my skin Missing her again And when I’m about to sleep, I wish I could just fast forward To wondering if I’m mental.