i'll tell you that if i start crying
i won't be able to stop
because the salt that pours from my sunken eyes
reminds me too much of the river
where i used to spend my afternoons dipping my toes into the water
and i'll say to you that if i sit alone
for even a second
i'll start recalling memories
putting puzzle pieces back
that i thought would never fit
i'll yell at you and say that
i want to go
and look out at the barren dessert beneath
my small feet
and i'll ask you to tell me not to wear that
because it reminds me too much
of when i wore it all too often
the night i arrived
the night i left
i'll say to you
don't let me read that
because i'll internally die
from something you didn't know could **** you
i'll notify you that i desire something
a wish an untold fortune
lastly, i'll do anything for you
because i want to go home
and when i do...
i'll never come back.

we were lying down on the grass,
watching the beauty of the sky;
she had her eyes on the stars,
i had my eyes on my world

Hello, Nine-one-one? I'm calling to report a missing persons. She's been missing for more than forty-eight hours, and I'm beginning to become ill with worry. Yes, she's gone missing before, but she always seems to turn up again not long after. She's never been gone this long. I don't know what to do. She is everything to me; she creates new life, she brings me new ideas, she builds worlds no one else could create. She's the reason I can do what I am best at, and without her...I've become nothing. It feels like a piece of me has been ripped out and stomped on multiple times. I now wake up and feel as if there is no new life to be found, to be created, to cherish. There is no more beauty to worship. I can no longer bring alive an idea from my one of a kind mind because there are no new ideas to be born. Not an idea to flow from my brain and through a pen and on to some paper. There is nothing to inspire me because she is gone, and probably forever. Without her I'm lost. Her name is...Creativity, and I suspect Writers Block of taking her...

So let me have the rouge again,
  And comb my hair the curly way.
The poor young men, the dear young men
  They'll all be here by noon today.

And I shall wear the blue, I think--
  They beg to touch its rippled lace;
Or do they love me best in pink,
  So sweetly flattering the face?

And are you sure my eyes are bright,
  And is it true my cheek is clear?
Young what's-his-name stayed half the night;
  He vows to cut his throat, poor dear!

So bring my scarlet slippers, then,
  And fetch the powder-puff to me.
The dear young men, the poor young men--
  They think I'm only seventy!

Under your gaze I become undone
Possessed by your everything

My soul feels bereft from its mate
and my heart cries softly from longing

Oh but this love is conjured in my head
for such perfection cannot exist

But how sad that day would be

When I have to let go
of such a sweet dream