And yet again I stare blankly at the screen
as the cursor blinks, waiting for my fingers
to speak my mind's thoughts. Perhaps within
the night's sluggish hours I will find the words.

A phrase—but of meagre stature and stance,
of small voice and weak impression. Alas,
I revert the page, blank once again, empty
and without. Time drags on without pity.

The words have evaded me for far too long.
I have searched in vain for what to say,
all attempts futile thus far, with wrong
turns and countless detours along the way.

Maybe my mind wishes not to express itself
without my knowing, or maybe these
monotonous nights have reduced my
poetic capability close to none.

Either way, an hour past midnight is never
the perfect time to write a poem of any sort.

It’s been ten years, long but short nonetheless,
But these last few weeks seem most valuable:
With the many tears, shed but shown much less,
With what was and still isn’t; days, countable,
Unwind the deep depths of my mind, as I press
And **** what memories I have left, unable
To realize, much more see, how near sunset’s
Come. For me, it might be time to buy a shave.

I’ve got a lot to look back to, much more to look at:
Those days I cried because I couldn’t fight and
The days I’ll fight because I wouldn’t cry… That,
That and why things are the way they are without
Having to ask “why?” are the things my mind can’t
Help but think of. It’s my time to wake up now.

Sunset nears, but there is no need to fear the night.
All nights pass as if there is none; hence, sleep is time
Travel. Sunrise will come just as soon as sunset; right
After the sun waves goodbye it greets us with light
So brilliant. Indeed, it is time to wake up… Tomorrow
Is just like any other day, just that it starts another
Ten years… of pain and joy, of sorrow and laughter,
Of new things and old habits… I’m not even halfway there!

Every sweet melody
Is a bitter reincarnation.
Every lovely tune,
A sad reminder.

This pain tarries in my heart.
Love—life’s overrated motif:
A flame yearning for more,
Burns the hand when touched.

To know what love’s
Is to know the sound
Of a shattering heart,
The wound of cupid’s arrow.

I am envious of those
Who have not felt love.
Maybe now I will rest
My heart. For how long,
I do not yet know.

tis been quite a while since;
now that im back im at a loss
a loss for words, a little
clueless perhaps-- for some
reason i havent brought myself
to write til now. why now i
do not know. a calling-- no,
a brief revival, i say; a sudden
puff of air fought its way through
to the rusted innards of this
heaving engine… a momentary
spark, brief in its intensity but
eternal in that its light travels
ceaselessly; the legacy of a
blunt yet nevertheless discernable
moment of passion, barely visible
but somehow, just somehow, twas there.

Time has fed a burning fire with dying embers.
A dwindling light in the winter wind, flickering
As the night sought to put it out but could not,
Resisted death and not once lost its light.

Still I pitied it. A candle hanging by a thread,
Waging quarrels with the wind, found no solace
In my cupped hands. The cold and bitter tears
Of these winter nights pelted its withering spirit.

No paper has no folds. Look closer and it will be apparent;
A crease, hidden beneath its purported smoothness—
Though blatant once told of, a fool, sir, will not see it patent,
And seizes within a denial of but his faulted blindness.

No paper is of even thickness. Feel it and it will be known;
A bump, then a sudden thinness somewhere on it—
So whether his benevolence hides it, he hides it from his own,
And dumb as he may’ve been, will never confess of it.

No paper is of ideal quality. The fact cannot be denied;
No man can ever craft a sheet of paper beyond half-perfect—
And thus, sir, do accept readily, for it has to be resigned, that
Likewise, no man is of perfect character, nor hasn’t defect.