the art of nonsense.

they say every writer's got his own style of writing..
of putting pen to paper,
of scratching dreams, fears and life choices 
on laptops, typewriters and old yellow sheets.
I am not really sure if I've managed through all these years
to create a certain way of writing my stuff.
yes, I was told there are some repeating patterns I use - 
I don't follow my characters' thoughts, 
I'm chaotic, 
yet sometimes I use strict structures for some poems,
but no capital letters or whole lines, 
or sometimes I don't make any sense,
and I want to say too many things with a few words
which automatically turns my metaphors into meaningless ink-stains I put too much emphasis on.
I copy Bukowski;
I copy Agatha Christie;
I copy my tests
I copy every single literary work of art that has ever passed before my eyes.
I'm a filthy thief with a pseudo-schizophrenic mind.
I want to say too much but I'm short of words
and breath
and something else that makes all the great writers so great.
I told you I get inconsistent at times..
but I think I know what it is
that thing that'll always be a constant in my writing.
I write about people,
for them 
because of them
in spite of them.
they drain me
they inspire me
they are the best and the worst thing that has ever happened to the world.
but some people are more real than others
- the ones that I keep as close as I can.
and then there's him..
he's everything.
every burst of emotion;
every moment of desperation;
every uncontrollable laughter.
I wish to keep him forever,
let this be my writing style
- him, inspiring my every word.

V.