it’s 2:22 in the morning,

the moon is spitting a chorus,

the bedsheets are whispering stanzas,

my bones are humming a D major scale,

everyone is writing poetry,

and i am alone

cramming pretentious words into my ears,

hoping pretty ones will come out my lips,

hoping i won’t choke on the script.

everyone’s writing poetry and

i’m scared i have lost my sensitive side,

i’m scared i’m seeing ghosts again,

i’m scared tomorrow morning i’ll feel numb when i trash this poem for no reason at all.

everyone’s writing poetry.

fellow are the pencil shavings, beloved,

but i am a hang nail, stressed over a rhyme and a rhythm.

i am a mess, a dance under the stars and the sky,

and the moon can take me when she leaves at dawn

because for some reason everyone is writing poetry

and i am at a loss for words.

still, i was born into the hands of poe and frost

and communists and skeletons

and the genius that conjured up religion on the back of a napkin.

i see no bother with words at all.

it’s 3:09 and i have officially died too many times for the sake of art.