Too much, Too many
Too many pills to swallow
To much sorrow for
Tomorrow,
Too many knives to the heart
Too much love from the start,
Too much lost
Too many things it cost,
Love is faded from this empty life
There isn't much light to lead me through the strife,
Not much left but this ****** knife,
Too much time all these years,
Too many times if I've shed  my tears.

I want to be Hemingway at the bar
and Shakespeare in the bedroom.
I want to be Dante in the classroom
but Hunter S. Thompson on the weekends.
I want to be Tolkien in the library
and Fitzgerald in the night clubs.
I want to be Poe in the gutters
but Kafka in the alley ways.
I want to be Carroll in the closet  
and Twain on the street corner.

I want you to see... us.

There.

In the background watching with a pen,
and thoughts born of words
aching to breathe.