I'm writing from a state of creative deprivation,
And I don't know why
Life is driving on and it somewhat forgot me at the bus stop.

I'm writing from a state of creative deprivation.
Everything around me lacks inspiration,
Everything around me is now monotonous,
And I don't know why.

I'm writing from a state of creative deprivation.
It's ironic that when I started learning from school,
"How to be creative and how to make it better"
I lost my creativity.
And I don't know why.


I'm writing from a state of creative deprivation.
I no longer know how to express myself,
My creativity drives everything that I am;
I lost it.
And I don't know why.

I'm writing from a state of creative deprivation.
To me this world held so much inspiration.
Now,
The world holds the paint brushes;
Creative thinkers are the paint,
And this world lacks color.
And I don't know why.

Jonesy 2018 ©

we were leaving after all these years
the place where I was born
the only walls, alleys and rooftops I have come to know
I counted down the days with sorrow and fear
not sure what to say to my friends
the only friends I've known
like brothers we were

on the last day I wrote a note
and folded it
stuck it in a tight gap under the porch
where the wood had warped
it doesn't matter what it said
just that I was leaving a piece of me here
a piece that may never be found again

Born indebted
Pretty and inconspicuous,
bullheaded woman

"Be petite"
"Be sweet"

Mormonism imbedded
Background created, disfigured with no accountability
They proclaim, "we have humility"

Here she comes, the one who is done
A demon who has just begun
A fallen angel with its halo still hung

Not a threat, only desolate
Pink dress is a signature for a distinguished mess
A force of reconstruction

A taste of death
Nothing else left
The master of her hell
She will prevail
God confessed