Be a bad poet.

Don’t let the weight of expectation convince you that your voice isn’t good enough.

Be a bad poet.

Write a mushy, lame, corny, common, plain, simple, limping, pointless, immature, unwise, mundane poem.

Grab your pen,  and write something.

Don’t let the illusion of not being qualified enough rob you of the spotlight you deserve.

Take the chance and find the most shameful, immoral, indecent, impure, uncertain, unfortunate, abandoned bunch of words you can find, and write a poem.

Be a bad poet.

Craft yourself a medal and place it over your heart.

Rebel against your self-loathing.

Bleed over your open diary, like a lover over their loved one’s corpse.

Release your demons and angels.

Indulge to your brain’s darkest, slimiest, cloudiest, creepiest thoughts.

Kiss them.

Fuck them.

Show them love.

Be a bad poet.

Pile the most horrendous, unacceptable, dangerous, irrational,  unwise, foolish sentences,

And write a poem.

And read it out loud.

Read it like you’re reading your defense against death penalty.

Read it like it is the most valuable thing that will remain of humanity.

More valuable than water, the wheel, the internet, airplanes, the pyramids, all of the art ever made, the heating system, the toilet, every book ever written, the printing press, the Taj Mahal, penicillin, the light bulb, Macchu Picchu, fire.

Be a bad poet.

Give yourself the luxury of imperfection.

Be a bad poet.

Dissolve your flesh and touch your soul.

Feel its texture.

And write a poem.

Be a bad poet.

Pierce your heart.

Slice it.

Serve it as the main dish.

The world deserves to try it.

The world needs to try it.

Don’t be your own judge.

Be true.

Be your own church, your own priest, your own believer.

Be a bad poet.

A bad poet is still a poet.

And a poet is a craftsman of life.