In honesty it bothers me I can’t write like I used to, when all my eyes saw were blue skies no hope of my head falling from the clouds, but that was then and this is now and somehow I ended up crashing back down to earth. No joy left, no merry mirth to be given I’m just living for tomorrow but tomorrow never comes so I slug it out like I remember doing not knowing who I am or where I’m going but hoping that I’ll get there one day, I’ll find my tomorrow away from today and be free from this eternity of wondering who I really am. I feel like I’m hopeless, coping with the thought that maybe I’m not who I remember because I’ve forgotten how to be him, but I just know freedom’s around the corner so I move forward forever wether or not it was meant to be, maybe this is me.

Such twisted wings on perfect frame,
A poisoned thing with pretty name,
Hallowed be her every step,
From when we met to when she left.

And oh how I am such a fool,
To fondly think of one so cruel,
Yet that is me, then and now,
A giving tree with core cut down.

And I cannot blame a tired soul,
For seeking warmth in world’s cold,
So when she gave to me her hand,
I gave to her a loving chance.

And in those days I wore a smile,
There was no maze, no test or trial,
To tell me then what wisdom knew,
That happy things are rarely true.

And soon I found she left to me,
Such twisting, gnawing, growing seeds,
Of pain and doubt in lasting glimpse,
Her name carved out in reverence.

For she confessed to me these thoughts,
A sense of growing, twisting, gnawing loss,
And I like donors linked and paired,
Gave my heart to see her spared.

But fool was I to do this deed,
As I fear this tall giving tree,
Has wilted, worn, and rotted through,
Left to mourn with little use.

So reaching then up towards the sun,
Sensing thoughts of love and fun,
I call anew another name,
To sew the seeds all the same.

Writing old and writing dead,
Writing here what’s left unsaid,
To say that I could never write,
And put an end to it’s delight.

From hopes and dreams I’ve made my case,
Weak and weary fit to break,
And from those ashes nothing flies,
Not a Phoenix within sight.

But I keep writing just the same,
To cling and cradle dying flame,
Born of love, a hope, a dream,
A tired dove now out of steam.

And who could blame the holding on,
To tired fame when muse is gone,
No halo, prayer, or feathered wing,
To hear these dying hopes and dreams.

When the writing feels stiff and stifled,
Uninviting where once delightful,
Where do you hang a pen?
From end to end I’ve searched my soul,
I’ve looked within, I’ve paid the toll,
I’ve strolled deep down that memory lane,
But writing now just feels too plain.
So I ask you now my dear old friend,
My dried up, withered, wilting pen,
Where do I hang you in the end?
With words all gone and want well spent,
What show you now in your defense,
But passion’s long and growing blaze,
Died to embers in it’s place?
Have you nothing left to say,
With such old and fading grace?
Where do I hang you in dismay?
To say goodbye and walk away.

My passion’s dead or simply dying,
And though I’m trying to understand what’s left,
I’m finding it impossible to make any headway,
In a headspace so jam packed with memories and remedies for things I don’t even know about, I have my doubts about what I can trust, but if I must listen to my thoughts I’ll quit chasing what I think they forgot, and listen to myself for once even though it’s just a shell upon a shelf of losing touch.

A writer born,
Writes ‘til death,
From early morn,
To final breath.

With pen in hand,
And parchment-slip,
He shows command,
Of wit and quip.

A tragedy here,
A comedy there,
To summon both tears,
And laughter fair.

Evokes in you,
A smile wide,
To show what’s true,
What’s locked inside.

A mystery then,
To speak your name,
To spark within,
That fading flame.

Of hope and love,
Of things forgot,
A memory of,
A world we lost.

To talk of soul,
Yet be cut off,
By woes of love,
Upon the rocks,
Dashed and diced,
In passion’s prime,
Is nothing more,
Than a mark of time.

The weary one,
Who counts his blessings,
By races run,
With tired methods,
Prays for rest,
Upon the wings,
Of the angel,
In fading ink.

Yet he knows now,
He is alone,
And for his troubles,
He shall atone,
As he loved her,
As soulmates do,
But wished an end,
Both well and true.

That was when,
His soul would close,
To any lovely,
Soft repose,
And he would fall,
To love itself,
And call “I’m sorry,”
As he fell.