The writers

The writers

Hold aloft their lighters

And worship styles of Kafka, Robbins, Steinbeck, and of Stoppard,

With syrup and with sawdust – a spicing so improper,

They burn the midnight oil as they’re pulling their all-nighters

Running ******* empty as they find their inner fighters

The writers, the writers, the writers

i put you in a box
and never laugh. i just sing
your wet tongue to the heavens
as I ***** for the right
to kiss
a mystery
that has refused
my box.

i cling to stars that have
your name....
like a man that has no wolf
in his veins
save the desperation
of my ***
sinking into oblivion
as i mark
nothing...

as i pass
for Human
and
awake.

i come undone,
but stitch the tatters
to the realm of gone things
like a kite
on the moon
waiting for a breeze
to define the world
that has no sea
to justify
a shipwreck.

i go where
my lungs are not breathing
to atone for my breathing
and squander all my lovely things
upon the gaping maw
of my empty dreams.
I pour myself into another
like a happy fool
but emerge
from shadows
I keep from my longing heart
to have at
you.

and that will do.