Bed

I'm sitting here,

at this childhood wooden desk

my usual hangout, and I'm thinking

I want to spell the poetry of Man

but I've got to go to bed.

I want to scream the secrets of my skin

but I've got the go to bed.

I want to dish on the dreams I've been having,

I want to fish around in a puddle of words,

I want to take Truth, Gonad and Amnesty

and turn those three words into the

Nobel fucking prize for literature,

but I've got to go to bed.

I wanna talk man,

but I've got to go to bed.

I wanna whisper strange incantations that I composed just to sound cool,

but I've got to go to bed.

I want to stay here all night helping the Universe realize itself

through conversation with the sky and my offwhite keyboard:

"Hey bro, I'm you, you're me, everything's gonna be okay."

But instead, I've got to go to bed.

So I close up this laptop, I take off my socks

and brush my teeth wishing teeth didn't need brushing,

and I climb in bed with a pen in my hand and a notebook under the pillow.

And when I wake up, that notebook is full of human souls

born scribbled in a stranger's hand.

See, whether I'm awake or asleep, I don't have to worry,

because my process doesn't stop.

You can't kill my creativity,

you can't beak my pencil.

So I'm going to bed.