Herro Anna.

Hemingway told me to write about what hurts

So suicide and death are pretty prevalent in my work

It twists and turns itself into my every written word

I’m a mocking bird, singing the same old song, it’s so absurd

But if I write, then I rewrite for the voice that went unheard

And I reword the same old story to the ending I prefer

Where death was just some distant doom that hadn’t yet occurred

And I could still hold onto her

King told me to write throughout the night

And wait for all the things it brings to fill me full of fright

But no monster or fanged demon ever feels quite right

Because I invite the absence of the light

In the darkness, perhaps she hovers there, just out of sight

Her ghostly figure fading as the moon brightens white

And as I chase her child’s hand, feeling mine ignite

She’s gone - and so’s tonight

Asimov told me to write to change the past

That every breath you took would eventually be your last

And if the blank page were God, what would you ask?

Seventy thousand words later, you will have surpassed

The shadows that have haunted you from tragedies amassed!

Praise the written word for it has the power to outlast

This fickle feeble flesh will give way, stories everlast

Christ was merely craft

If you ask me, write about your dreams

The changes that you’d make in a world that makes you scream

The cruelty and hypocrisy and welcome rise of the machines!

If you could look into the mirror and be what you believe

A sister who didn’t fail, merely fantasies

But aren’t our stories that? Rewritten tragedy?

Casually adjusting the casualties of our random reality?

Bringing rhyme and reason to rhapsody? Dysfunctional family and rejecting finality and fucking profanity?

If you ask me what to write, just don’t ask me why

Because I’ve been writing as an excuse not to die