Chalky Taste of 2 A.M.

I can't tell if inspiration is behind my tongue playing peek-a-boo with my writting or I'm running dry.

The prices are high on words, they're more rare than oil. God I'm so spoiled.

I can't tell if it's running for good, if there's just a clog in my pipes but I feel smoked out.

How long can I do this? My heart didn't stretch; It's no contortionist.

I feel like I'm running low, When does something get new?

Start me up.. Please start me up.

Feeling so dead so why do I breathe? Call me dramatic, call me cliche. I already say these things to myself.

My poetry sucks. My music is dry. My tongue shakes when I try to sing.

Breathe. One more breath. Search for meaning. I let meaning search for me.

meaning is a perspective. I have no perspective. I have no perspective.

What the f**k is wrong with me?