Finally, there’s poetry. Now I realize that the word “poetry” sounds romantic, but I can assure you that’s the farthest thing from the truth. Poetry is a wolf in your chest that wants to chase the breeze. And there’s almost no good in that. Certainly no food. But poetry doesn’t care that it’s Monday and you’ve got business to attend to. It doesn’t exist for you to control. Poetry wants you in the moment. Worst of all it tells you that it’s the reason you’re a writer at all, and that you’d damn well give it the attention it wants or else it’s going to rip a hole in your heart.