Lean on a Crutch at No Set Time of Night and Knock on Doors

We don’t want to read or watch,
Not now. We want to write. Well,

We want to line up, find ways
To fit in a good, small place.

You know, it’s weird. We come back,
Each time new bits, fresh black lines,

But most of us are the same
Old words you’ve known years and years

And if we weren’t, who’d read us?
Ah, good point. Who reads us now?

We are not the part of us
That’s new, that is just this once,

Nor are you. If we are us,
We are the same that came through.