worse for wear

it's been a long time since i've been around.
i sleep in a hotel room for the sake of not living.
i need that feeling of being kicked out.
i need that feeling of sleeping alone.

the typewriter in front of me is on its knees.
my tired mind gives it a supplicant voice:
"will you please start seeing things on their sides?
will you please look through them instead of away?"

i looked through the drawer
(and saw a razorblade)
i looked through the ceiling lamp
(could it take my weight?)

half-finished cigarettes mashed between the keys
crumpled inspiration in a heap on the floor
at the top of the page, a few words: "sometimes, i just want to"
and then rows and rows and rows and rows and rows
of x's