why are we like this
spilling words onto paper
in dark lit rooms
with doors closed
heartbreak playing
like a record
and my heart
is the record player

the artists of words know
its 2a.m. when the words come retching out
after an hour of damp papers
they weren't supposed to come out
not today
no, you can't tell your friends
because only a poet knows
the ****** battle
you are fighting
inside your
head.