Poet’s curse 

​You can’t create without destroying. That’s the poet’s curse. 

He just can’t create art 

without destroying his life 

or everyone’s around. 

Write, fuck, drink, smoke

Fuck, smoke, drink, write 

Any direction 

Is valid 

Any confession 

Can beat the habit.

You’ll think I love to write 

But it really tears me appart, 

Makes my being cry 

As my soul flies. 

I love poetry, 

But it’s so sad 

I don’t think it’s healthy 

For this man. 

It gives me hope, 

As it destroys my corpse. 

It takes me home 

When I’m surrounded 

by madness, 

It helps my loneliness 

As it causes it. 

Poetry is life 

It will take you down 

To the darkest place 

In your heart 

Make you fight 

Your deepest demons 

And greater fears, 

Kneel as you face them 

And get up as you write them. 

Poetry is like a giant plain 

Going through the clouds 

Annihilating the pain 

As it grows again;

And this is a flight 

That could never land. 

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