I lay in bed

I might be dead

I read poetry

I like to starve my thoughts

until they are deformed

like malnourished babies.

Then, I feed them

with my words—with my own thought formula.

Some writers poison them with alcohol

but that’s not my style.

Writing is an itch, I resist

to scratch.

Needy writers

betray themselves

with their voice.

That literary bitch

won’t let them

touch her.

See what happens, when this little girl

grows into a giantess

and clubs them to death.

Every true writer needs to kill the ideas inside them

by laying down a death sentence.

The French have an expression

for an orgasm

La petite mort—a little death.

That’s what creation is

how long can you last, before you give in to your final thought?

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