i don't feel very poetic

and i never thought the ceiling i stare at each night
was worth a poem
because i'm sure you'd rather hear about the star splattered sky
with it's infinite universes that envelop beating hearts
and tear things apart just to make them novelties once more

but the white stucco above my head has constellations of it's own
that have kept every secret i ever told
on nights that i'd rather cut off my hands than write a
single godforsaken word

maybe the ceiling is it's own kind of sky
decorated with daydreams the clouds could never carry
it's not poetic by the usual definitions

but neither am i

you call me creative
but my mind is the place
dreams go to die

they embark on a quest to impart me with
gold stained teeth that smile with some kind of weight

but they drown soaked in the ash
of too many stale apologies and
late night '*******'s screamed at the sky
so hollow they ring on their own

i'm so tired of pretending my words have meaning
but the only things bouncing in my skull are the nightmares
that survived me

so i don't go to sleep

i write down all the things i am not

poet comes first
and the ink cries out of my pen

i want a smoke
to fill all my empty places
(**** there are
so many)

but it can't fill my
arms

so i guess you'll have to come and do that