It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane

Carve out a chunk,
the happiness hunk.
The one that stays clear
of all of the junk.

Without this fine piece,
one is never in least,
content with ones self.
A man without peace.

Take out the side,
with ego and pride.
That part is the worst,
Just set that aside.

Believe when they tell us,
it too, makes us jealous.
When envy is stricken,
a man over-zealous.

Cut out a slice,
and anger's the price.
Lets get rid of that,
it's not very nice.

See, this ones a cage,
where bad memories age,
and morph into new forms.
A man full of rage.

Punch out the holes,
that sadness controls.
It can be so hard,
when charred into souls.

Aside from the rest,
but, nested in best.
the sadness takes hold,
and a soul is depressed.

The thing that most feel,
has taken the wheel,
is fear in itself.
Although, its not real.

Fear is insane,
it confuses the brain,
into thinking its there.
A mans shadow of pain.