Nearly five months now, I've worked this way,
And it's finally taken it's toll.
My heart was open.
My soul is bared.
And now my mind is bare.
A full year was beyond me,
But I'm satisfied with what I've done.
It's genuinely difficult for me to create poetry I can be proud of now, I think a full year was too much of an undertaking, but I'm glad of what I've done, and I don't intend to stop writing
I strive to create,
Yet my canvas remains clean.
Curse this temporary fate;
As an artist, I feel second-rate.
Clear, ever flowing,
The river coursing through me;
Carving it's own path.
A void brings nothing but pain,
This, I find, rings true throughout me.
A heart split in twain,
A stomach running empty.
Yet it's when my head feels full,
That it chooses to announce dismay;
It racks and beats against my skull,
And announces intent to stay.
Music of the soul
Carried aloft amidst winds
Leaves me feeling blue
Pen touches paper
As the sun kisses the horizon
Fulfilling an empty promise
To see this ritual through
We don’t see the carrots to be cut,
We see the sharp knife that could cut us.
We don’t see the bridge,
We see the other side of the railings.
We don’t see painkillers,
We see medication we could drown ourselves in.
We don’t see the train,
We see the tracks we could lay on.
We don’t see the nice view,
We see the cliff's edge we could jump off.