My fits and starts are old car parts

My mouth’s a roof that’s streaming rust

It sweats out novocaine

I hardly feel my chest combust

But I still taste the rain.

Come here my dear and crawl

Into the backseat of my brain.

Lust for words is just the same

As tongues and teeth and shock and shame.

Absurd, this longing to uncurl

To show the world its bones unfurled.

I fog up with the chatter of acclaim.

And now we teeter on the edge

A broken bridge, a narrow ledge

We tilt our heads up to the sky

Because we don’t know how to die

Like children, all we really know

Is how to feel the melting snow

And how to taste the rain.

I wrote this last night during one of my bouts with insomnia/marathon hitrecord perusing sessions.  The title came from watching this cool footage, but I think the poem is really about the feeling you get when you can't make art.  Not sure if it's finished....edits welcome.