while others sleep

stumbling over piles
of books and pages
of thought with swollen
hands writing more
memories and thoughts
how many lost along the way
too many cold nights
and eyes finally showing years
of sleepless nights
while others sleep
while others hate working
the writer performs
deconstruction on the mind...

the emptiness

in a spot not so different

thoughts and memories

right here doesn't matter

who sat across the table then

no one does now

as night creeps away

from a thinker too much

on the mind studder

step to the door

it's closed and there's no sign

that help is on the way

off the point which was emptiness

in a spot so familiar

should have made it a point

to make more friends

they were here once

the tables had to be pushed together

to make them bigger

had to wait your turn to speak

so much to hear and how much went unsaid

doesn't matter who filled the void then

it exists now and a choice

sacrifice for the craft

not necessarily helping it along

in fact in someways impeding a flow

of new ideas and concepts...

lumps of paper

another end

lumps of paper

piled high

surrounding his madness

who will take the time

to get lost in what some

might consider banter

others might not have the patience

to get to the end

of another book of thought

just wants someone else to think

tell him what you think

or what you don’t know

or what he doesn’t know either…