Write when you are empty.

Spend your days

burying your thoughts in print,

allowing the words to take you deeper

than your feet could ever wander.

Write of the rains of November,

of bruised sunsets,

of unmade beds,

of memories that aren't your own.

The art of playing with words,

of collectiing them into impossible sentences,

creating the scent of tired declarations

and broken ideas

that fills the room in which you've worked.

Hide yourself in inkstains,

protest the insufficiencies,

write of the world

as if you are not a part of it.

Write your messy

empty

thoughts.

Devalue them on a page,

taking away their sting,

and like the silence that resumes

at the end of your favorite record...

Write when you are empty,

ending only when you're full.