3 A.M. again

The masters have told me
to write drunk
and edit sober
but I wonder
if I shouldn't just skip
the editing process altogether...

I never cared much
to read
what I wrote
in the wee hours
with a head full of grass
and a liver
full of screwdrivers.

I never cared much
to re-realize
the immense size
of my delusions
my desires
my dreads
and my dreams
come to life.

I never cared much
for poetry
to begin with
so why I write it
is truly beyond me.

But here it is
and here I am
and as the zombies stumble about
on the screen
and the screws
continue to tighten
in my brain
I sit back
and refrain
from being refrained
and ponder the dark
and the stars
as the smoke
seeps
from my lungs...

I wither away
day by day
waiting
for a rain
that will never come...

the flood already
tore through
and took all of worth
from this fragile structure.

The winds
and the tears
came
to wash it all away.

Flowers bloom
on my tongue
as corpses rot
in my skull
and I wonder
and want
and desire
and despise
all that I have
become
thanks to
a self-fulfilling prophecy
I never
should have
divined
to begin...