I am dumb
with wonder, that I\'m
not torn asunder, that my brain and body don\'t burst, under the
torment of the demon that lives in me.
He longs to be free, struggling clawing, scratching to be released, shrieking at me to write the words that reside inside.
I tried hard to drown him with vodka and Guinness Stout, but he learned to swim.
So once again, we toast the night alone by candlelight, as I read Sylvia Plath while he takes a bath in dark Irish beer. He knows that writing\'s fantastic, orgasmic, electric, and we cum together as he whispers sweet prose while doing the back float in a sea of Absolut.
I\'m destitute, but he doesn\'t care, just as long as I share his seed that spills from my quill.
And so, I hear his shrill voice in the middle of the night, screaming, screeching, write motherfucker,
write.