Why is this happening to me
I have writers block you see
I don't know what to do
I've grown tired writing of you
It's run dry
And is quite a bore
Night time is normally when my writing is peak
But now my writing seems to be weak
Poems need much more than rhyme
They need words that will survive time
Mine just crumble and break
Maybe I'll have better thoughts when I wake

I feel like I'm drowning
and I
don't know where my
anchor
is
because every time I think I
see it
it pulls someone else up to
shore.

I can only write
When
my wine
is too strong
And feelings
too low.

Bukowski is right;
Poetry is what happens
when nothing else can.

There is a sea in me

It roils and boils
And churns and swallows
And breaks on the jagged teeth
Of the coastline

It crashes and comes
With a force untold
And lays waste to the dry land

Sometimes it calms to a hush
Only to rush my lungs with brine

There is an anxious sea in me

Into the thought of our minds lies the soil of deception,
it is utterly a disgusting intravenous injection
Manipulation an deception are all around,
I felt embarrassed and put my country's flag down

I hate the way of how we tend to deceive,
and I utterly find trusting hard to believe
In lying and deceit everyone's a target,
its almost like a cash receiving market

Deception and arrogance are like a worldly and deadly disease
there is no cure which brings me to my knees
In life everything determines your fate,
so make good decisions before its all too late...