Writing is like a drug
Full of ecstasy, agony and
Illusion of immortality
Flying high on
Improbable sentences
Only to smash again
Into the depression
We just crawled out of
Never mind that nobody
Reads our scribbles
They wouldn’t understand
We are invincible
The words gushing out
Spreading like manure
Across starving fields
Begging for more
We turn our emotions
Into art or what we think is art
It’s a head game
Only we can comprehend
Literary magic mushrooms
Roaming our brains
A poetic interpretation of
Russian roulette