At least I'm writing again
even though it's sloppier
than kindergarten scribbles.

At least I'm writing again
even if it's darker
than a moonless January night.

At least I'm writing again
even if it's not
easing any pain.

Monday trickles into Tuesday.
Wednesday and Thursday blur out of focus.
The weekend doesn't even happen.  
Suddenly it's Monday at the end of the month
and you don't remember getting there.  
You don't remember eating
or sleeping.
You don't remember anything
expect monotony.

The days have been pureed into a monochromatic slush.
Unappetizing and bland.

I don't write anymore.
I haven't picked up a pen in a year and a half.
The words are gone and I am empty.

I look at an autumn tree and don't see renewal and change.
I see the oncoming winter
and the cold depression it will bring.

I look at a sunset and no longer see the universal canvas.
I see the end of a long day.

I look at a stream and instead of imagining the lives of fish
I see only perpetual change.

I don't write anymore
and it's killing me.

The hand that penned those words was mine,
but the soul behind them
the crimson flame and silver tongue that spoke them
isn't me anymore.

I'm not her;
Hell I'm barely me.
I remember her
in the way one remembers a long lost friend.
Distantly  and with fond thoughts.
Those words are no longer my words
for I am not that soul.
I am a shell of who I was.
A broken, tired, warrior fought too long.
I've lost her hope her happiness.
I've watched  her dreams die.
I've given up everything she wanted.
I've changed

I don't know who I'll become  or where I'm going
but I'm not her anymore.

A warrior doesn't need a therapist.
But then again a warrior doesn't cry when yelled at...

You turn and throw your ring at me
the one we used when we swore forever.
The ring gets bigger as it gets closer to me
it grows and grows and finally smashes against the wall as if it were glass.
The pieces are everywhere,
I try to pick them up but they shred my hands.
The skin on my finger where my ring was
peels to the bone.
Blood and bits of my hands mix
with tears that are pouring down my face.
You look away and I know I've lost you.

Great anguish brings great inspiration.
Words flow from my lips,
Fresh and cool. Trickling ever downward.
My mind never stops rushing and my pen follows suit.

When in times of great happiness I am sent out to sea in my own ideas and hopes.
Words are salty little splashes of ink.
The pen my canoe and the paper my little boat.

Between great sorrow and deep happiness is a desert of contentedness.
No words quench my longing
when words could cleanse the land,
flood my soul.
Thirsty, lost, hopeless,
wandering in dust with no voice.