A writer’s life
should not
be easy.
Whether truth exists in her words,
depends wholly on the chaos
in
her life.
The writer will destroy himself, not once,
not twice,
but perpetually,
to attain a truth residing
behind one of the myriad facades
that obscure
the pale,
murky
chaos of
existence.
A writer,
impregnated by comfort,
is dead.