Deep fog sets over the craggy mountain.
I watch from Anacapri.
The smell of lemon fills the surrounding
And alas,
I am at peace.

I've always wanted you to expose yourself,
drop the shell,
show who you REALLY are inside-
show it,  just for me,
and I guess maybe I've realized
the shell is who you are.

The blank page lies open,
Like a freshly fallen field of snow,
Ready for me to leave my mark
In mucky prints of ink;
Dark across it's ****** slopes

I have little issue with speaking the unspoken,
But begin to falter in breaking the unbroken.
The page is inscrutable; oppressively immutable,
But it's inexcusable to deny its aspiration.

So I must bite my lip and gird my *****,
Break the unbroken and spoil the unspoiled.
But if I set off will I stumble?
What if I fall?
What if the penprints I leave across the field of my page go nowhere after all?

Well there are many fields, and many pages;
And on this long journey; many stages.
I roll in the snow and make a mess;
Start with a word and see what comes next.

So just explore where the blank page leads you.
It may not go where you expect.

We are the writers who defy being told what to say, how to think, or express ourselves. We write not for the glory of recognition but for the sake to give words meaning. For all you outcast that have ever been told you are not a poet, were out here too, waiting to see what you create with your pen. - Christian Ek

you were the de(f)inition of
toxic.

yo(u) took control
and never let go,
with a (c)onstant
deathly grip on my soul.

could you have been
any more aggressive?
only god (k)nows.

but i know one thing.
i left (y)ou,
as soon as i c(o)uld,
and
i'm
f(u)cking glad i did.