We can’t breath at night…the anxiety eats us alive….and so we write. Us mifits and ghastly devil children, the witches they threw rocks at….See writing isn’t hard, is it? You sit in front of a type writer, a dim lit phone screen, pull out your handy-dandy pocket book and bleed all over it. Thats all writing is. Pouring out the internal hemorrhoids on paper. You choke on vowels and vomit out poetry because on the inside you’re suffering and no one see’s…no one see’s because poetry is beauty. “You have a natural talent” For what? Writing? Its not rocket science, I’m depressed. I take my medication, like a ritual, to survive. The doctors tell me it’ll get better. They all say its a phase, but I think I’m terminally ill, a depression cancer that isn’t going away. And a good mix of chemo and cannabis isn’t gonna fix it. This writing I do is the only medication that provides relief. I see results everytime I can’t sleep, hunched over the computer, letting words drip, bleed, ooze out my throat, my fingertips, onto the keyboard. My veins popping out of my eyes…but with passion. Because maybe someone else relates….somebody else knows my sickness. Someone other than me suffers this disease…I’m sure. My fingers are slaves to my brain, slaves to my emotion, anxiety, depression, internal suffocation.. my terminal illness that probably isn’t a phase. Writing isn’t hard. But isn’t it sometimes painful?