I want to write poetry that grabs fists of your hair and rips it from the scalp of your dead skull, refusing to be lost amidst the din and the clamor of death screaming and sobbing that it is life, it is life.

I want to write words that are a weighty fist to your sternum, dispelling any breath still lingering in the dried up husks you call lungs and revealing to you that a lack of oxygen is not the only condition that constitutes a drowning man.

I want to write stories that grab the skin at the back of your neck and shove your face an inch away from the incomprehensible darkness, forcing you to confront what simmers in the depths of your soul- the repeated lament that what you see in the middle of the night behind your shuttered eye sockets is death although it claims to be life.

I am afraid the darkness knows me better than I will ever know myself, so I write to know, until there is no more to write.