Some poets have muses
they have inspiration
that wells up inside
and gives them something to write

Some poets have great emotions
boiling up,
overwhelming their thoughts
until they have to take action
their words teeming with feeling

Some poets have experience
their knowledge and wisdom
flow with what they've been through
and they take you on a journey
as they enlighten you
on their life

But me?
Lately my pen and paper
have been left untouched,
neglected.

It's not like I have writer's block,
I have writer's uncertainty.
It's not that I have nothing to write,
I'm just not sure
if I want to take a long look
inside myself
and write about something
deep
dark
and dangerous
that I've kept within.

Sleep beckons
like a warm embrace
at my bedside,
Flame dances before me
in a vibrant display of heat.
I watch as it curls
around the paper
that I feed it,
ever curious
if it enjoys
the taste of the words
upon the sheets,
just as I
once tasted them
on my tongue.
Before my eyes
all the past feelings
the joy
the sadness
the anger
everything within
burns away
with the paper
as it fades into ash.
With every old note of yours,
the flame slowly trickles
down and around the edges,
savoring it with care.
I playfully tend
in mild interest
to my small fire
of memories
I wish to forget,
and just when the flame
nearly dies in neglect,
I grant it another note,
watching in emptiness
wondering if its smoke
will somehow
fill me with something
to feel
as it fills my lungs.
Rain seeps
down my window
providing me
a soft, dull noise
as I work.
But before long,
I run out
of memories to burn.
I had thought
that burning those notes
of love and affection
would give me back
something to thrive on,
ever so briefly.
All that it gave me
was a bad new habit
of burning things
and a slight
tickle of irritation
at the back of my throat,
as I continue to inhale
the smoke
the ashes
all that is left
of your precious notes.
With an apathetic sigh,
my gaze returns
to the faint whispers
of flame,
its deep blue color
yearning
searching
gasping
for anything more.
I then lay down
and watch
its dying breath,
the last bit of evidence
of my work
blinking away
as sleep covers me
in the dead of night.

Looking up
I see the hardwood trees,
their patches of leaves
gleaming in the evening sun,
shifting in the breeze.
The skies are blue,
wisps of faint clouds strewn about
floating along like they always do.
Looking up
through the window I do see,
and for some strange reason
I feel momentary peace.

Take my heart
Fold it in half
Fold it again
Tear it into five different pieces
Burn one piece
Crush the second
Shatter the third
The fourth dissolves into nothing
And the fifth is thrown away.

Take my soul
Fill it with hopes
Fill it with dreams
and promises
Expose it to joy
and happiness
Bring it to life
with your beauty
and then,
just as you welcome it,
abandon it to be engulfed
by sheer darkness.

What happens after that?
I don't know,
But you've left me to figure it out.

You are a building
simply put.
Created for the sole purpose
of being my current shelter.
Nothing more.

You are not the home I grew up in,
but a house,
a humble structure
in which I currently reside.

You are not
the home I was born in,
yet new beginnings
are born from you.

I miss you at times like these
when I'm getting ready for bed
like you should be here when I lay down...
just falling asleep with me

I miss you at times like these
where your scent lingers on my jacket
on my clothes
in my mind

I miss you at times like these
when I hear your name
and find that it was in reference
to somebody else

I miss you at times like these
when even from a distance
you still manage to make me
laugh and smile

I miss you at times like these
when I wake up in the middle of the night
and you're not there
your arms not surrounding me
in comfort and warmth

I miss you at times like these
where I can still feel your chest
your steady breathing
as you rest beneath my head

I miss you at times like these
when my body aches for yours
with only memories to recall
the stolen moments

I miss you at times like these
when I think of you
and my heart can't help but
skip a beat

I miss you at times like these
when I'm alone
and I don't want to be.

You think I don't know you like the back of my hand?
That I can't read you like my favorite novel?
Think again.
Everything you're trying to suppress from me...
come on, don't doubt my intelligence.

You just won't say any of it to my face...
instead, you'll let it seep through your presence,
through the vibes you give off on the ever so rare occasion
that you're near me these days,
silently tugging at my mind with your gaze,
which speaks more than your mouth ever will.


There's nothing to say?


Really?


You're just not saying it.


I don't have a problem with you.
I'm just left here to watch
as you continue to build a wall between us.
Yet you want me to open up,
to tear down the barrier you're creating
and bond with you as I once did.

It doesn't work because
you're not saying what you ought to.
It doesn't work because
you're contradicting yourself.
What you say and what you won't
are two completely different things,
because what you SAY
isn't
how you FEEL.