Adorn

I ] Don't Be A Writer

I

Warn your neighbours that if they smell burning,
it's just your soul.

Then go and lock yourself inside of an empty room,
and scream until there is no voice left, only words.

Peel open your veins, and bleed out the
sorrow and pain from your mistakes.

Slit open your throat, and pour out the
regrets you've made.

Go lay yourself in a casket, and visit the
darkness you've boxed inside.

Remember to forget yourself, as you are
long forgotten by everyone else.

You instead will embody the pen and paper that
you've fused to your wrists.

Allow yourself to finally rot as poetry falls from
your hands, like leaves from a hollow tree.

Do not claw at the oak door, for you are six feet
below ground, and buried alive.

And know that your ink does not judge,
and your paper does not argue, your words will never leave you—

So learn how to lose everything you have,
and feel the release.

Learn how to become deceased, for your
words are a cemetery, and your poetry wails
in the night, like ghosts in search of somebody to fright.

If a friend comes to ask you, how are you able to write?

I know you wish to tell them how your
flesh can glow, from the words sunken within,

but it is instead numb to the bone;
and words will write you and make you an unwell being,

so all that you can say is that you don't.