Writing Pains

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit at the typewriter and bleed."
Ernest Hemingway

A Monster Named Lonely

We were running

from the same demon

with blackened fingers

and oily hair

that screamed 

“lonely lonely lonely”

down the long halls

that curved so you could hear

the steps you had taken 

five minutes ago.

You kept telling me

You weren’t ready

to die

but that you weren’t ready

to live.

Sweat poured down your face

so that it looked like

you were drowning

and I couldn’t tell 

if you feared yourself

more than you feared

what chased you.

“I have fallen into poetry and it has swallowed me up.”

—   Keith Haring 

(Source: poetry-and-insomnia)

Untitled Poem #7

I wonder what made
the moon cry so much
so that his tears
would fill the night sky.

Maybe it was because
he could never see the Sun,
and he missed
her warmth