It was named after the bodies that lay below,
whose tombs stood close by,
whose families still cry.
It was for those that had nowhere to go,
those who let out a sigh,
those who wouldn't cry.
It was where the days felt the most slow,
but still we all said hi
and still we all gave it a try.
It is called Home, for those who got to grow,
for those who didn't die
and those who made it by.

I love you, the way flowers love the sun
The way the night needs the stars.
I ache for you, like a wound from a gun
But gentle, like slow burning cigars.
I want you, the way that kids want fun
But harder, like a love that leaves scars.

I love you, with a desire that burns like the sun
I ache for you, inside me like a bullet from a gun
I want you, and what we share when we're both having fun.

The way the night needs the stars,
But gentle, like slow burning cigars,
And harder, like our love, that's left scars.

I write best at two a.m, or whatever time is less convenient.
Irksome really, why only these hours my words become brilliant.

It could be the hour, or just the bottle I've picked.
Or on one of those nights, maybe the **** I ripped.

Whatever it was that sirred up my thoughts
Whether it was the drugs or the tequila shots,
It's always two a.m when the process starts.

Friend of mine in heartache,
Devour the muse you enstress
Make your hands shake
With the words you harness.

Take your mind to wander,
For the comfort of the soul.
Let your physical ponder,
And create sound per vowel.

Hey friend,
Let me know
If your heart still aches
Once your soul creates.

I'm in midst writers block.
I don't want to stop writing but you might want to stop reading.
This will be senseless.
This will be repetitive.
My brain creates no patterns.
Maybe I am not a writer.
Maybe I can't write some worthwhile.
But maybe **** that "poem"
THAT POEM THAT ****** MY MIND.
And **** that poet too.
I am a writer, and I have writers block.