Once upon a time, a penis was born. He was a sad little penis and he could not talk nor snore. He could only write words on the sheets of his mind. But every time a white liquid bursts out of his body, [that he thought was just pure shit] he realized that thinking too much is too messy. Yeah, messy but it tempted him to do it all over again. He was a writer after all and he was not just a crazy little penis waiting to be just inserted in someone else’s hole. he was something else.
To be a writer is to masturbate. You cannot masturbate out of nothing, thus, you cannot write out of nothing at all. When I write, I stain lost pages, I drink the elixir of life. I understand deaths, half deaths, senseless deaths. I write pains because it is only in those sheets that they can get stained, and sooner they will no longer inhabit my head. I write based on how i see the world and how he world wanted me to see itself. I become a writer when there is enough reason for madness and temptations to hate and to love.
I practice masturbation. I practice writing in my mind and let them crawl in the tip of my fingernails. I form cobwebs in my papers. I do not want to write when i have positive feelings because they kill my pain to write. I listen to music, those songs that had images that reflect emotions.
And so most of my poems ejaculated out of rage and seductions of pain and bleeding heads. I am mesmerized by the idea of forming relationships and losing them at the same time. I want to understand how they die in their own beds, shirts, bellies and hands. Most of my speakers are ordinary women struggling in the world of their own relationships. I find my theme common and so in any possible way, I want to explore every fiber of a relationship to taste them fully in my own mouth.
And to that, may I live forever.
I’m a wannabe blogger who loves the 90s and Dr. Martens, an annoying mother and a jealous fan of A.M. Homes.