I became a writer because I was incapable of traditional survival techniques. Equally as I was in love (with the world) I was terrified (of the world). To do what I’ve done, you have to hate yourself immensely. Desire burned like devastation in me? In truth, maybe I didn’t want anything. That is another horror. It is insensible for me to overdose on medications and spend the following weeks imbibing organic juice and wheatgrass shots as if they are ambrosial drops while smoking under starlight. My wellness era. This is what it is like to be a poet: you are lying down half-unconscious when the fragment telekinetic void rises into your mind-universe. Madonna the world-arsonist
I was void and vortex of the labyrinth-abyss
(now all done darkness)
yes I witnessed the late Madonna
torched like matchsticks
As usual, I have adamantly refused to share my writing ☺
