my pen ran dry.
No words fell for me.
I looked  and looked
for a new muse.
I finally searched
through the bottom of a bottle.
I know I Did not go out to get lucky
or find oblivion.
just a place to fill my dry pen.
I found a barmaid.
she was lovely.
she filled my glass
Again and again.
All breast and doe eyes.
She had me talk
a few of my poem's.
she said I used the word
love too much.
without saying what it means.
She broke my block.
The poems poured
From me like water.
When we lay together
she broke my tears
with her acceptance.
She told me that
I did not love her
I just needed her.
When she met my mother
Mom told me she liked the way
she looked at me.
I smiled and said I liked it too.
This life was not the world
for her beauty.
She left it with
wounds from herself.
Now my poem's
flow like tap water
but it's all salty and red.

Everyone can be their own poet
and write as much as they want
and at times they borrow words
the words that caught their heart

But to borrow is to ask first,
to borrow is to give credit to the owner.
Because in the first place,
those words were never yours.

Been a while since I sang
Can't seem to wake myself up
Even with the loudest clang.

I'm dry. Imagination gone dry
Fingers, that are itching to tink,
seem too lazy to even try.

Days passed so fast.
Goals set and started
but none did last.

living like a doll
a nowhere man
lying all day, dull

my music suddenly empties
No more hums and melodies
Ever since you took the sun and left