my dreams usually have nothing
to offer me
they are like flapping

bondages to make me remember
things could go wrong now
and can beat me in the face

poetry doesn't swirl out of me
i taste it and beckon it out
i give false promises of the
world, and my muse

hurls behind a word machine
and spills out syntax
so raw
sometimes i feel empty
with the nothingness
but then i remember how
my own words
can decieve me into happiness
like pills
like the enigmatic wisp of your
and i find i am able to
calm myself down.