there is no such thing as a sleeping poet

i know wandering and weeping poets
with hardened eyes but gentle souls,
and i know happy poets who took
the world and gave it a heart, some
broken poets who healed up well,
some who don't want me to write
their definition for them, but you 

can only hold on to so many words
with two hands. my fingers swear
i would never be sleeping; i am dreaming,
remembering, or seeming to play dead.
the poets who have healed sometimes
check on their beds back in hell, the ones
who always smile are those who cry
the most, and the ones who point a pen
at me and mouth don't you tell

are dying for someone to speak.
i am a math-poet. a science-poet. a pianist-
poet. not in that, or any, order. i am bored of boredom
& i stargaze with my cat and i would like to always write
about the heart as a literal organ, as
something that chaos theory couldn't say more than.
at night i breathe, i remember, i dream
because in a poem, nothing is what it wants to be.