how to fuck the algorithm & get kissed by your muse instead:

artists take the parts of life
too wild to domesticate
and teach them to purr in color.
we write poems like pick-up lines
for the impossible.
slide into the dms of god
& say:
“hey.
i see you hiding under logic.
wanna make a mess?”

someone once told me
that writing wasn’t real work.
so i handed them a poem
and watched their jaw
dislocate from all the things
they never gave themselves permission to feel.

alotta ya’ll keep trying
to discipline your creativity
like it’s a dog;
when she’s a blood-drunk panther
with a throat full of prayers
she learned in hell.

every time i try to write something
“on brand,”
my muse fakes her own death
and reincarnates in a feral forest
where algorithms get eaten alive.

you ever share something so raw
your shadow asked for a cigarette after?
same.

sometimes i wonder
if creation is just a kink for chaos.
if artists are the ones who said yes
to being fucked open by wonder
without asking if it was safe.

what if art isn’t what you make
but what leaks
when you stop pretending
you’re not magick?

what if writer’s block
is just your creativity
refusing to be touched
by anything less than reverence?

what if the point of art
wasn’t to be seen
but about seeing
the version of you
you buried in second grade
when the world told you to shut up?

some people start masterminds.
i started a moon-drunk monastery
called howl & honey.
we’re poets. rebels. lovers.
we write like we’re kissing
every part of ourselves
that's been called
too much.
monthly q&as.
somatic writing prompts.
behind the scenes of poems
that undressed me.
book clubs for the artists
who crave intimacy.
first theme?
internal family systems.

$111/mo.
opens tomorrow.
comment “wild” if you’re ready
to spit on conformity's face with us.