meant to be

     
it's no coincidence    
that I am behind a pen at three a m    
nope, see the stars are zombies    
in a foodline    
and I have hoarded the bread    
   
I was meant to seek a cold keyboard    
when a perfectly warm bed    
was provided    
and not for the art of it    
artists can drop dead  
and not for the loneliness,    
angst, burning fucking desire,    
 
no, those poems should be the kindling    
to cremate the artists by    
   
It's because I got my insomniac    
and dreamer out of whack    
was supposed  to    
who else to break the ice at a party    
and break the rules of liberty    
by going too far    
   
You were meant to laugh   
then to "reel me back in"    
when you were worried   

I am a born giver    
had tears and regrets back-burnered    
just for the occasion