Write when you are empty.
Spend your days
burying your thoughts in print,
allowing the words to take you deeper
than your feet could ever wander.
Write of the rains of November,
of bruised sunsets,
of unmade beds,
of memories that aren't your own.
The art of playing with words,
of collectiing them into impossible sentences,
creating the scent of tired declarations
and broken ideas
that fills the room in which you've worked.
Hide yourself in inkstains,
protest the insufficiencies,
write of the world
as if you are not a part of it.
Write your messy
Devalue them on a page,
taking away their sting,
and like the silence that resumes
at the end of your favorite record...
Write when you are empty,
ending only when you're full.