Painting on my floor

I wish this could be a
picture,

in many ways
it is,

in the most important ones,
it isn't,

I am left with words and
nothing else,

stinging meaningless
flat words,

no subtext, no gentle strokes,
no shaded marks,

just lines and letters lined up
one after the other,

a string of thoughts, at best,
a rough outline,

causing pain and misunderstanding,
and you know,

just looking plain awful for the
most part,

times new roman lettering, lazy,
I just hit the keys,

I just type whatever the hell
I want,

because I tell myself this is me,
what I am thinking,

this isn't planned, I don't have an
artist's table,

I don't have an artist's
touch,

I have a desk, it's dusty and sits
by the window,

sometimes it sits there, alone,
all day,

I don't even look at it
sitting there,

I just go on dying and it goes on
waiting,

covering itself up in dust, looking all sad,
eventhough it's not alive,

it's like atlas, shouldering
my typewriter,

then when I have something to say, some ugly,
useless thing,

I type it out, and we both wait
for me to fail,

which happens from time to
time,

there are more crumpled papers,
than clean ones.