Poet Junkie

I'm a user
an addict
a junkie
huddling here.

It's cold
I wear a hoodie
covered in dumb tear stains
painted by me.

It hurts
worse than any hunger for sex
and one more raw reality check
the scars of self doubt
ache bad.

I'm begging
for a coin
or a crumb
from the creative goddess
I worship
her breath hanging
on my own charity.

I hold out my hands
ready to grab
to pump word blood
through my fingers
sweet fix of inspiration
for another bloody birth.

But the world hurries by
time is a title
lost without a poem
and all the secrets
on the edge of my sleeve
are dirty teasing whores
their chained up flowers
firmly locked away.

I watch their poetry blossoming
into untamed stallions
galloping hard on a dusty trail
always beyond my reach

Others write pure
but the details I lust for
stay locked inside
itching ugly
deep under my own skin.

I'm drowning
in meaningless self expression
and unfinished lines--
such worthless pills
but I'm helpless
so I gulp them down
blinded by the magnet of dreams

All shame ended long ago
it had to
the day I understood
there's no cure
I'm waiting until tomorrow
for this burial to be over
to begin again
with different words
a better bunch of ideas
another fresh start
with a clearer connection to soul