the plain white page.

Sometimes when I write
and I have nothing
in mind
it seems to flow
with the blood
in my brain
anyway.

and while the walls
are quiet and
painted white
they
somehow manage
to drive me
to the edge of
insanity.

with the winter here
the crickets are dead
and somehow I feel envious
of their terrible good fortune.

wide awake at 2:39 AM
I feed from
with the immortality
of the written word.

long after I'm discovered
will any of
this
matter.

and I imagine being famous.
people visiting where
I used to live,
and write.
but they'll never
find the missing
poems and
stories.

they'll be locked
away in my grave;
a romantic idea
of a
selfish
writer.

who knows
when it will be
discovered

certainly
not
after this
is
finished.