There's no magic in the process of writing,
Words are just open wounds with no intentions of getting better.
There’s this collection of madness in my head.
If you get your hands somehow on them.
Please respect my words,
As I am fragile.
So if you want to write like me.
You'd have to get yourself sick.
You'll have to puke yourself onto the notebook.
You'll have to carry others regret, but never yours.
I have no idea of how much of this is poetry.
But I know the difference
of a poet and a sick person.
The latter pays to control his sickness,
And a poet gets paid to become her sickness.
The first time I wrote,
The sky was full of fire
And my lungs smelled of wet blue-black ink which was begging to dry.
I learned how to give my soul a name that fits.
I learned how to take that river-clay within my heart and make it into something.
I learned how to look into my eye
and say "there's nothing frightening here".
Everything’s a work in progress:
Art, belief, knowledge and even myself.
