I spend my days
thinking in poetry-
perfection never penned,
perpetually falling upon
my own deaf ears
and disintegrating into
the great nothingness,
only to be recycled
into bits and pieces
of other poems
never to be read

with each night
the words vanish,
one by one,
as I repeat them
incessantly, hoping
that I just might
recite a stanza
upon waking

I wish that my
mouth would open
and out they would
come, perfectly pressed
upon cardstock, fresh
with that inky smell
I swear still lingers
on my finger tips and
pillowcases

instead, I lay still
and silent, and watch
hopelessly as
they drift into dreams