(not in sorrow, just in the now.)
Here I am
just broke;
spending my last amount of change
on coffee and cigarettes
in hopes of creating something
out of the nothing that I own
that will take me up
like an angel
to the life that I dream about
but don't even remember anymore
because sleep is a memory
three days distant.
I've wasted my time
on thinking of how else to waste my time
in even more hopes that the time
will bring more creation
of the anything
that I dream of
coming from anywhere.
I create dust from my skin
watching it flake off
and collect on my books
that are there to inspire
but as of late,
do nothing but taunt.
The dreams,-they haunt
all of them just memories
of love poems
inspired by my own pining
fueling that insatiable lining
in my heart
that soaks up my emotions
like a tape worm
only for the left overs;
the waste -
to dribble off of my bottom lip
and and land on a paper
who's destiny is
a crumpled death
with a burial in the trash can.