newspapers beat upon the windowseal

asi think of the right things to say

the wind sucks the air right out of me 

and it dies with my candlelight flame 

the words i write are the words i read 

i no longer know if they're mine or not

my blinds are shut and my pencil is eraserless

i feel like each line has become a lie

like the sky, demanding a storm

but there's no clouds

only blankness in sight 

i have become deaf the the ones i love

i can't hear them but they can't hear me

i think that's why i like to write so much

cuz then i no longer have to speak 

i no longer feel the need to be understood

cuz people will read me like i read my poetry

and people will never need me like i need my poetry

even in the dark i know exactly what i'm trying to say

sometimes poets are just born from rain

and theses newspapers contain nothing new

for i have already been the last to know

and just realize a flashlight is no substitute for your warmth

and my poetry is no substitute for my words

an umbrella is going to be needed either way