Lovely Poetic Lunacy Poem by Amouta Stardancer

Lunatics live off clouds,
puffy white vapors,
to stick their heads in.
Lovers live off others,
pretty individuals,
they can cling to.
Poets live off ink,
begging for it to drip,
from their pens and make art.
And so few make it,
from their prisons made,
of bedsheets,
of blank paper,
of water vapor.
Always flying high.
cause if they fall,
they won't want to get up again,
don't want to live,
off what everyone else lives.
Clutching their crutches,
in the sky they look down.
It sucks to be me,
everyone says,
the poet knows it,
the lover runs from it,
the lunatic embraces it,
cold he flies into the night sky,
they'll never see him again,
he's the lucky one,
the escapee.
The poet journeys on,
always,
clinging to his pen,
praying it'll give a little blood.
The lover looks up from bed,
dumped again,
the cold emptiness of the other side,
where the sheets are still made,
fills his heart.
They all take a drink,
from their three bar stools,
reserved in the corner,
as they're regulars.
Looney chants something,
in the darkest region of the corner,
the poet scribbles hopelessly on a napkin,
and the lover recites pick up lines,
starring devotedly at miss beautiful eyes.
That's their play,
happens every day,
until Shakespeare comes out with a winner,
and Looney ends up in the bin,
and Romeo gets laid in his casket.