Sometimes I believe writers are their own species,
That maybe we come from a different breed
Because real life has no appeal to me,
And normality is an anomaly.
I think in poetry and prose
And prefer to walk with the ground an inch below my toes.
I hold my pen like a cigarette –
A slow but steady path to death.
I have coffee for blood,
Old pages for brains
And I’m always happiest when it rains.
Some people think that I’ve gone mad,
But I think just the opposite of that.
Everything I read is a part of me;
I guess a writer is what I’m meant to be.