untitled

untitled

night paints a dark picture

even stars refuse
to be part of

still moist it drips into a cup

heart opens with emptiness

I write to fill with words 
that pretend to be big
 

but they are too heavy

dragged across the brittle
floor of the heart

screeching like chalk
on blackboard that others
mistake for crickets

P.S.: Have not been writing much and never been more unsure about poetry - what is it again?