Writing kept me sane.

What do I do now when there's nothing worth sharing—no writing left in me anymore?

When I can’t write
And still I wish to.
Thinking all night
Hoping to see you.

Writer’s block isn’t for me.
But poked eyes, tonight I see.
Paper and pen, Keyboard and screen.
Either way, words fly from me.

Into the mirror we gaze
Staring into the endless maze
That are the windows
To the soul
Outer space
Two black holes

Jump over the fence
Into the place where
Logic makes no sense.

I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.

On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.