the truth behind writing.

there’s so many reasons why not to write.

cliches of poor, starving authors.

no jobs, no families, just drunken, lonely men

building houses in the woods.

but those statements don’t mean shit.

because they have nothing to do with why you should write.

so why should you?

you should write because the words themselves are screaming at you.

you should write because they are everywhere, under every inch of skin,

throbbing, pulsing,

alive.

and you feel like if you didn’t let them out you would die.

you should write because the poetry sucker punches you out of nowhere

in the middle of a movie

a date

a shower

you should write because you can’t imagine ever not.

don’t force the words

don’t try to be deep

or copy styles from some bestselling author

or to impress people who you don’t even give a shit about.

write for yourself.

write because you can’t help it.

write because the words spill out uncontrollably.

as if you’ve slit your wrists,

and your emotions bleed into in the paper;

into pages now stained with your beauty.

you should write because you hear the nouns

courting the verbs

as the jealous adjectives

mistakenly murder the adverbs

you should write

because it’s the only time

that you force yourself to look in the mirror

for a short while, no matter how afraid you are

you’re forced, compelled; and for once,

you stop lying to yourself.

write because the words just come

appearing at their leisure

driving you mad

gnawing at your soul

write

because if you don’t let the words out

they’ll die

they’ll wither

and you’ll be alone.

surrounded by the corpses of art

wishing for heaven

longing for purgatory

yet trapped in avici.

trapped

in the horrible silence

of

eternity.