I write about the ****** of innocents
Terrorism, injustice
It shows I'm getting angry
I see here poems in praise of God
(I don't have a problem with that)
Poems of love lost and attempted suicide
(I do have a problem with that)

My remedy

Turn of everything
TV, computer, tablet, phone
Then with just pencil and notepad
Take yourself off and find a quiet place
I have three such places
My garden but there I always want to do something
My little spot down by the river
But best of all my tree in the forest
Where me and Mollie dog can be alone.
Find yourself such a place
And close your mind to all the stress and troubles
In your life
Sit there for a few hours and write, tell us your thoughts
Written in such a place where harmony rules
You're all talented writers on this site
Set your talent free

As poets we are supposed to be master of words
Especially if those words are meant to describe how we feel inside
But when it comes down to you I'm more of an idiot than a poet
Simply because there are absolutely no words that come to mind
Then what makes it worse I have no idea why this is
Why I find myself staring at a blank sheet of paper for hours on end
Why I can't stop thinking about you even when you're miles away
Why I want to know ever little detail about you before I even take a glance at your physical beauty
Honestly this time I'm just clueless
Maybe it's because of that smile of yours
Or maybe it's because of those pearls for eyes that shine when the sun rises
I just really want to understand why I change so drastically when in your presence
Why my heart temporarily takes control of my mind when you walk by
Please I just want to understand why...
Why I become so happy when you say something as simple as hi
It is just so strange for I
But I would truly dread the day you say bye

I can't get over you*
      But I hate you.
  You hardly come around.
I used to date you when your time frame was more abrupt
    You'd show up with a kiss and a hug
  Give me the gift of love
With no glove on, just pure touch
      Pushing your button and gripping you tight
   We used to get by
You'd always take me back
  For the very last time
Stuck between whether it's wrong or its right
     Being this naked
We'd always fight and when it was amazing, even they loved it.
       From cover to cover, our bed was made up and it read like this:
      "Here lies Poetry and her Poet, God rest their souls on crumpled paper"*
      If we make it
And our love is a mainstream instrumental, will you come back and talk to me or will you choke me on your lies,
All your promises meeting their demise in a pair of telling deceitful eyes that I couldn't draw
    The paper might rip in these hands made of straw
      But the years will drag on with me gripping two halves beyond repair trying to grasp the reality of your infidelity