this ain’t pretty verses or neat little stanzas. this is blood on piano keys. rage in the kitchen at 3 a.m. love with teeth. grief that won’t stay quiet. I don’t write to soothe or to save. I write with my monster tearin thru skin. like a drunk carvin sobriety outa bone. like spit hittin the floor between lines. like a man who knows poetry is for assholes and still can’t stop bleedin onto the page.