I have tasted freedom in many different flavors
And none of them were as sweet as everyone claimed they would be

Part of the act of escapism is getting to leave when the house starts burning

Who knows where the flames came from?

Who knows if any of it was love?

This house is not a home
I stare at these walls
Grab more clothes
Hug my mother
And leave again

I have lived so much of my life in borrowed space
You would think I was not welcome in my own home

But this house is not home

And if I could swim through the troubled waters you would never see me again

I look around and this house is still on fire
There's scribbled lines on door frames
Next to children's names
And the same plates they used at their wedding

There's
Whispers
And drafts
There's pain and flashbacks

This house is not a home to me anymore

Maybe it never was.

No inspiration for another entry but my talent itches to create
so I look in various places hoping to get back to my creative space
Whether it’s thru social media or from a line in a song
I listen to the words being spoken as my thought process follows along
A Poet’s Blues? That’s something you may never be able to relate to
Just the need of wanting to write but nothing exactly to inspire you
It’s like facing a roadblock but there’s no detours insight to get around it
you’re just traveling thru it & facing the horrified soundtrack around it
Could you easily find your inspiration when you’ve written over 400+ entries
wanting to keep writing but your drive & motivation feels empty
Not sure if you wanna write about your life, to a song, or just something
to keep your mind running even if the poem’s about nothing
My Poetry Blues, falls in place when I get the desire to write based on what I see
coming from the soundtrack of someone’s life but it relates to me
I just sit there in my living room with my pen falling asleep on the paper
wishing for an idea to come my way thru my mental creator
A Poet’s Blues? Imagine having your mind freeze & you’re just standing there
frozen in time & frustrated with nothing to say as you pull out your hair
When it’s all said & done, you’ll probably never understand the anger or a talent’s snooze
cause at the end of the day, no one really cares about a Poet’s Blues

☆ Poetic Venom ☆

you know of blood as thick as honey,
that turns to crystal as it dries
tame me with tender, melt me
with kindness
let me feel that i'm more than

His head kept bumping on my shoulder
and he was not my father
or anyone I knew

he smelled as if a bath was overdue
and slept like wasn't a place better
than the ***** briefness of my shoulder.

Breaking down was my brittle patience
needled by his bristled cheek
brushed by his shabby dress,

was for rest the man hard pressed?

Wouldn't I have been nudged by pride
if the head on my shoulder was my father
happy to have him by my side?

as he gets older
does his blurry mind miss
a place where he is not alone

one or any shoulder
for an untimely nap in peace
a quiet stranger to rest upon?