You're stuck in a rut
there's no escape
you have but little freedom
your mind lost
controlled by a demon
that knows you all to well
welcome to your living hell

Poetry is dead
when you are not here
to write it in my heart
when your voice is too far away
to read it.

Poetry is dead
when your allure is feeding
strangers' souls on the streets
while I am here alone,
my soul starving.

Poetry is dead in all my being
I feel its ghost leaving my brains
I feel the emptiness inside
and I fear the days
when it will come haunt me
and I won't find a way
to write it.

Sleeping at night it's impossible
cause I hear a question screaming in my chest

When poetry is dead
is there anything out there
left
*alive?

When the sun and the moon
Collide in the sky
When blood drops,
Are the only tears I cry
When snow flakes
Fall in the middle of June
When the sound of silence
Remains the only tune
When the fish sprout wings
And fly from the sea
When the only thing standing
Are petrified trees
When the sky loses its color
And is no longer blue
That, my sweet, is when
I'll stop loving you

In a ***** roadside bar
lonely drunks remember themselves
briefly
they've experienced loss
like us
and once a week are invited
onto a damp little stage
under a flickering light
to say something
as a reminder
of their existence
in the middle of nowhere
like a wandering ghost
in an old motel