Someone once told me that poets and writers are like alcoholics, I didn’t quite get what they ment by that. But now I get it, I get what they said, I get why they said it.
An alcoholic needs a bottle, a writer needs a pen and a paper, an alcoholic takes a few sips, he starts to forget, a writer writes a few words he starts to float. After a few sentences, a few verses he starts to slip, drift into dizziness. Not aware of his surroundings he digs deep, cutting open old wounds for the sake of it.
He forgets who he is, where he is and let’s the words fill the pages, like he’s drunk and doesn’t give a fuck what rolls off of his lips.
He doesn’t know how, he does it, it just happens, it’s the things he needs to get off his chest, afraid…
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