Philosophical

when the last line is written 
when the last rhyme is pulled from the bowels of that… 
place 
when the brain burn and the message is to my liking for now 
i will return to the folded arms comfort of night 
pick out a star and float to it 
sleep 
 
unlike the wicked warmth of tequila 
or cocaine's almost passive attempts to own me 
the word is my true addiction 
the insidious hold it has 
drawing me in 
calling to me every waking moment 
i fear the whispers will not end in death 
and I shall face an eternity living the nightmare 
of an incomplete batch of words 
that hold the key to my missing life

addicted to the word