I enjoy this sort of visceral imagery.  The tone  has a certain despair and longing which affects me personally.  I enjoy this piece. 

I love the last line, it stuck with me all day

I do love the imagery.  You've got good descriptions in there that really bring out an interesting feeling to me.

Having said that: I'm not a fan of the rhyme scheme. It needs to be more regular or more uniform, I think. Having the last two lines rhyme in the longer stanzas is off-putting to me.

The imagery in this is fantastic, as is the message conveyed: I really connected to this poem on a personal level. I especially love the penultimate stanza and how the rhyme scheme there stands alone from the rest of the poem. 

That last line really caught my attention. It could easily be a stand alone blurb, but it fits so well as the closing line to rest if what you're saying. It captures rather well that awkward limbo that is neither living  nor death that so many feel in so many different aspects of life. Well written, thanks for sharing.

"The poet in me fell asleep"
"I am not alive, but I do not die like I used to."

These lines are aesthetically pleasing to me...I just love the way they sound. Albeit a bit vague, I really enjoy them. The message of the poem seems up for interpretation. There is pain, but I sense an uplifting, some hope.

Thank you.

While I absolutely love your descriptive writing style, I find the inconsistent rhyme scheme distasteful and all around it brings down the flow of the poem as a whole. 

I really liked the rhyme scheme, and there are definitely some great poetic tools at work here, particularly the great assonance in line 2.  The images flow really well together, and that is hard to accomplish.

I'd eliminate the ending comma from line 5.  It's not grammatically necessary and aesthetically the reader doesn't have a need to pause there.

I like your shift at the end. I was pretty certain I had gathered the meaning of the poem, but your ending helped a lot.

I cannot write, because I want to write.  
I do not feel a burning need to bleed these words.  
I cannot carve out my heart.  
My chest is not cleaved by spiritual rage.  
I cannot spill onto the floor,  
The contents of a hollow tin shell.  
I am not in love, nor in hell.  
&amp;nbsp;  
The poet in me fell asleep,  
Somewhere between housework, homework, and work.  
The conviction in my own holy scripture,  
Lost faith in hours of prayer.  
My talent, my passion, my all,  
Forgotten in days staring at the wall.  
&amp;nbsp;  
This is but a futile murmur,  
A useless push further,  
A squeal at the witness of a murder.  
&amp;nbsp;  
This is the end of poetry.  
I cannot bleed, I cannot see with my eyes closed.  
I cannot pull letters back out my ear.  
I am no longer digested.  
I am not alive, but I do not die like I used to.  
&amp;nbsp;  
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/686q57/crazy_talk/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/68myj9/birth/


The Dying Elegy