i don’t read enough to write
i dream too much to get much sleep
i wait around for life to start
and every day i get less deep
i was a poet with a pen
i’m not so sure i had a choice
i rasped the words as best i could
i was a singer with no voice
silence. darkness. eyes held closed.
but open now i’m forced to see
numbness gives way to despair
until i’m back down on my knees
i’m still a poet maybe then
not an imposter through a screen
i write myself into a life
pretend i might know what i might mean
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