I don't write poetry anymore
I was lying on my bed lost in my thoughts and I realized I don't write poetry anymore
I used to write so much that my fingers would be sore
and that my words would almost become a bore
but now I don't write poetry anymore.

At some point in the last two years I stopped writing
blame life, blame time
blame the fact that maybe I forgot how to rhyme
Okay, I didn't forget how to rhyme but maybe I forgot to be passionate.
I don't write poetry anymore

Words and thoughts and ideas used to pop into my head
and I could not keep my fingers on the keyboard as they fled
fled from my head
fled to the page
whether fueled by passion or by rage
I had things to say and words I wanted heard
and now it seems so absurd
I have no ideas, no thoughts come to mind
I know poetry takes time
but
I don't have much time
things to do and people to see
the world seems to expect so much out of me
two years have passed and I almost forgot this task
task of passion and of heart
task I had fallen in love with from the start
words mean so much and I love to write
I guess that is why I am here tonight

I had this thought and it shook me to my core
this hobby I used to adore
time I used to feel I had a purpose for
but now my fingers have forgotten how to soar
my thoughts and ideas are poor
I guess that's why
I don't write poetry anymore

We are the kids
Who want to feel alive
We want to feel liberated and beautiful and young.
We are the sad youth.
Of cutting
And anti-depressants
Praying for some one to save us
From ourselves,
When our minds are dark
And we are alone.
We are the wild youth.
Of late nights
And city lights
With our lungs filled with smoke
And adrenaline pumping through our veins.
We are the lonely youth.
Where no one knows our thoughts
And no one understands
But God, how we wish they would.
We are the hipster indie youth.
We don't do it for the aesthetic
Because this is who we are
We live our lives in black white
And sometimes, someone beautiful
Adds in the most vibrant color.
We are the wandering youth.
Searching, exploring, running, grasping
At whatever we can
That make us see
There is hope
And wonder
And brilliance in the world.
We are the youth of today
We are different
But we are human.
We are the youth.
And even if our youth is fading,
The memories we made aren't.

~for lovejunkie, who loved this poem best~

so many reasons,
so many stones
yet unturned,
for each poem
a season,
for every season,
a given reason

eyes, dimmer,
hearing, harder,
memories, ha,
disappear as fast as
footsteps upon
my island beach

this then
my log,
of places momentarily visited,
capturing the of,
of me,
the exactitude of
where, when and what
I felt

what felled me,
the long and lat,
of the attitudes
of breeze and currents,
the happenstance that carries
a desperate soul
eager and afraid
to remember

"how fragile we are"

so memorized records here,
for his storage and his places,
both filled and unfulfilled,

poems, nothing more,
flawed each,
product of a flawed man,
here, for all to see,
most of all,
for the man,
to see himself
when the eyes of his mind
at last be shuttered