Writing is a sickness Not like rolling a joint to pass the time Or spending too many nights drunk off tequilla is a sickness But rather spending your nights frantically scribbling down word for fear you will lose them forever Eating pretzels and tootsie rolls and using them for silly analogies "Tonight my soul is as dark and smooth as the milk chocolate that I consume by day" Because nothing can be assessed at face value The world becomes shades of gray The sun becomes a firey ball And the moon a steel plate Love becomes rose thorns deep in salty wounds And life becomes so many cliched roads and rivers floating drifting free fall in time Because you are sick And there is no cure You find yourself moving quickly from place to place Ingesting every movement/moment to elaborate on Every detail not leaving your mind Insanity becomes your nights And anonymity your days People become paints on moveable easels Done by abstract artists whose names have disappeared into the annals of history