^I’m three poems behind and I keep falling asleep,
that’s what I left on the keyboard last night.
I’m thinking it’s not in the cards anymore.
I got reporters at the window day and night
asking who I’m gonna be
when I’m not that gone anymore
on pumping out mediocre lines
for the sake of routine.
I’ll probly be out playing darts, I don’t know.
I don’t care.
I’ll spray poems on the side of a bridge,
I’ll throw poems down the faces of buildings,
I’ll scream ragged poems into paper balloons
and send them blazing up
where they won’t be missed.
I’ll be a crock poet, I guess, but I can’t
be a dedicated one when it freezes my blood.
I’ll be a slacker poet, I guess, ’cause I can’t
stay awake anymore when I’m three poems behind.