i don't want to be in bed.

unconscious and still,
i want to rage against the world
from my kitchen floor.
full of cigarettes and moonshine.
full of warm thoughts and old guilt.
full of lipstick teeth
and ripped pantyhose.
hair wild and breaths deep,
i will remain.

propped up by the fridge,
empty until payday.

i will write late into each night
staring just past the page
until, either the world comes into focus,
or i become certain that it never will.