[To Write a Novel] a poem

I can hear the wind at
nightfall in a twist of imagination;
The door wide open,
as I like it;
Black smut has wrapped
itself around thousands of seconds,
consequences,
painted inclinations,
skin at personal cost,
progressing into the incredible novel,
transformation out of pill form
threatening directions it must be
swallowed without aide,
if daze is desired to
someday subside



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]