Alcoholism and writing do not
have to hold hands. Let’s end
that connection right there.
The chasm of literature is only
self-destructive if you allow it
to become so. There is peace
to be found in the bleak corners
of the human soul–that is if you
spelunk into it seeking beauty
in whatever form it takes, not limit
it to glowing embers of brilliance.
I’ve seen eyeless lizards with florescent
bodies cling to slick stones within my cave,
and I regarded them as hideous
and wonderful as a darkened moon.
I tossed my flask to the side, drunk
in their glory until I was inebriated.
Around me, the walls reverberated,
“My god, is this the purity sobriety
has to offer?” One of the eyeless lizards
inched forward and squeaked, “Yes.”
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen