The Floor And Me

I like to write poetry sitting on the floor. Even when my body is sore. From feeling panic throughout the night. So I am tense and tight. When I wake in the morning, I could eat breakfast. But before that, I write a poem really fast. I like to write poetry sitting on the floor. Pages that I tore. Crumpled as my hands feel. I should probably have a quick meal. I like to take a nap on the floor. Scattered pages that I tore. Scattered thoughts that are tumbling out. Making a mess like the way blood could spout. I like to wake up on the floor. The day is no more. But at least I got out of bed to sit. On the floor beside it. I tell myself… I like to sit by my bedroom shelf. I’m at ground level. Next to a grave dug by a shovel. What I wrote today. Is beside me, as I pray. When I write. The floor, I fight. Until night. When I might, Die next to my pages. That I’ve been working on for ages. I should really clean my floor. From the pain that I tore. Or I could just, Lie on the pages to get some rest.