An Intermittent Roommate

Poetry says what I cannot.

Filling in the white linelessness with

extravagant, thesaurus-ological not-made-up words

which tell me what I am feeling

Poetry sings me to sleep,

But is the kind of impatient uncle who

won’t wait to check if I have crossed

the somnolent threshold

before scurrying off to do more

exciting things

Poetry once told me that I

could

never be a poet because

I have too many mouths to feed

Poetry cries to sleep at night

I can hear them

through our paper thin walls

through their stained eyes

throughout the shared pulse

that keeps this house standing

Poetry once left me a note,

but it was my obituary and

when I was done reading it

I flipped it over, and in rushed

 all caps handwriting 

 it read -

“your [sic] welcome, now go live your life/

you crazy kid”