where words were supposed to dance
on white background blue lines,
it is only i who lie there–insensate.
the stanzas whose broken promises
never quite make it past my tongue
embody loss and love and hope.
i try to bribe them with promises
of an audience, of fans, of adoration.
i try to bribe them with gifts
of alcohol, of money, of diamonds
but they just sit content and alone.
who am not content alone,
envy those poems inside of me
who refuse to be heard.