smoking poetry paper like cheap cigars.
and I can't seem to fit words into the cracks
like so many times before. maybe I've been glued
by metaphor so many times. that
broke me. beyond repair.
I'm just slowly working my way
into reality. and it's a place I never wanted
to visit to begin with.
and it hurts.
that's it. it hurts.
so I write. and I throw it away.
in hopes that everything.
that I felt when I wrote it. would go
with it. but then when the pen stops moving.
I'm left. with paper
riddled with dead stars in the form
in short. the writing doesn't help.
and I'm here. needing sleep.
two cigarettes short of finishing a pack.
and. I give up.