I am going to drown
in the gown
that was grown alone,
brown and dried
from the leaves that died
and the seeds of death
that were sown at home.

Is it fatigue,
am I just too sleepy,
or is it the end
of a great run
of creativity?
Perhaps, am I just lazy.

It seemed that daily
I could breeze.
Writing came
with such an ease
that a sneeze
could bring me
poetry;

But now it seems
I need
extreme dosing
of caffeine
and something
different
then what I’ve seen.

Yesterday,
a leaf leaving
winter bear limbs
could send in
ten thousand
words.

Now the words
are sluggish turds
that won’t get out.
What is this ****
all about?

Brown and stinking
sinking while
I am thinking
that all my ideas
our thinning
and repeating.

Years ago,
I used to know
who I was
and who I wanted to be,

but lately
I am less swimming
than barely floating,
grasping for any lines
worth noting
but choking
before the verses
coming out.

Maybe this is
just creator’s doubt,
I’ve seen similar
cycles before,
but how can I achieve
greater leaps
in creativity
when my creativity
seems to have left me?

In moments
Of utter helplessness
I seek solace
In silence.

I have no pride to swallow
Choke on my tongue
Larva in my mouth
These are not my hands
Is your spirit really here
Or simply passing through
Are you making fear
Pulling up hairs
On the back of my neck
Is that your presence I sense
Manifestation of nightmares

I told you
Not to come
Here you are
Here I am
The one who cannot leave

You knew of my binding
Spit in my face just the same
I can forgive anything
I dare not forget
Skies are open now
Stone tablets broken
You should have written
Promises on your hands
Then you would have kept them

I am not the string
Around your finger
A reminder of promises
A circulation of inconsistency
Set me free

Speak no more      
the daylight is dead
silence belongs to the night  
let the heart its burden shed-

feel once more
let love its lustrous wings spread
far away are my thoughts tonight
where have all my fond dreams fled?

Some where in Paris
Empty cobbled street
You look at the river beside the street
There sits a bench under the moonlight
You walk towards it
The street is empty,
The night sky is immense
Even more immense with the blue stars
Flickering in the distance.
Sitting on the wooden bench
Facing the free flowing waters,
Under the vast night sky
You sit alone with the moon
Next to the flowing river
And wish that this feeling would last
Forever...