I’ve lost my motivation to write. I’ve shared oceans of emotions to countless strangers, the Pacific runs deep, so does poetry.  It’s ingrained into my veins, the poetic blood is running thin. I’ve given my mind to putting pen to paper, in the hopes of sharing what won’t be heard.  I’ve screamed out my pains to crowds of has-beens, wanna-bes and random men buying their coffee.  No body ever listens. A great poet once said; “listen to the words, never mind who says them.”  How can you listen to my words, when I don’t even believe I’ve spoken?  I’ve become tongue tied, I’m caught between the lines of false hope and empty pages.  The somber truth is, I don’t know what to write about.  All my scars have been shown, tears have dried up stage floors and self-drawn blood has been cleaned.  What is left to write about when sadness is my motivator?  Everything.  I have more to write about then I ever did.  I can share the moments that cleared my skin of all anguish , Times I sweat poor-appointed fears away. I can tell stories of when I banished a fire-breathing female that took my heart, cooked it like bacon.  The only hope I have left is that it still tastes good to next elegant beauty that comes my way.  I’m the sea of open ideas, an unquenchable desire to fill empty pages.  I’m no longer caught in the web of words I trapped myself into.  The broken promises of “I’ll write tomorrow” no longer exist, just sub-conscious here-say. Approaching from darkness, I whisper to my finger tips and pencils, here comes a new motivation.  It’ll lead to sunny summer Sunday’s, rainbows follow thunderstorms.  I wonder if the leprechauns left me the *** of gold.  I won’t know until I set fire to my graphite flamethrower.  So if you’ll excuse me, I must getting going, my words are getting hot, and I’m ready to write.

I often wonder what stars look like during daylight.  Understandably, that seems contradictory, seeing as daylight is cast from a star.  This isn’t starting out so well.... Just.. Hear me out on this one.... Alright, let’s start again.  I often wonder what stars looking like during daylight.  Do the spread life-giving rays toward deep space or is that just the ignorant optimist speaking too quickly?  I tend to speak first, question later, Standard american wisdom, does anyone else think it’s cool that the hottest stars are actually blue?  Blue... Like the eyes of pretty girls on TV,  Blue, like the first T-shirt my second love told me I looked good in, for a third time.  Blue... Like... Blue’s Clues?  So far, not so good.  I’ll apologize to the audience right now, It’s been some time since I’ve written, Feeling like a typewriter collecting 50 years of dust, my words are quite antiquated. Now... Where were we?  Right! The stars!  They scream to me, words, I only wish I could understand.  I can hear the right side of the sky when the wind calms, and clouds disappear.  “ gaze upon us, let’s fill your emptyness, enjoy the abundance of mysteries sent through your squinted eyes and released from your over-bearing shout.
Hey now, I don’t know about you, that sounded pretty good.  Definitely going to keep that in here.  I think I’m unraveling the mystery, The stars are magicians.  A bit of sleight of hand, now you see me... Now, only they see me.  I finally understand why the ends of stars are pointed, it’s the edge of their wands.  Cascading star dust over what they see fit, I remember being told humans are made of such a thing.  If truth is spoken from these lips, Color me blue, I wish to be the hottest thing in the sky.  Sadly, I’ll be an infrared Super giant, just wasting up space.  Maybe I’m not to know why I can’t see the stars.  I’m not meant to know the mysteries, after all, a good magician never reveals his tricks.  Tonight I’ll look up towards them, infinity between us, I’ll speak to them;         I still can’t see you during daylight.  I can’t hear the left side of the sky, it’s whispers  clouded by Andromeda. However, this stellar disappearing act has allowed one piece of light to shine through the cloud cover and dust I’ve collected.  They’ve helped me finish the poem.

Welcome to the fast lane of...
hold on I’m vibrating.
Cell phone flips open
thumbs move like clockwork
even when inattentive eyes start dead
at the chalkboard.
1st period notes
to last period quizzes,
the mind makes no error between the difference where letters A
and S go.
The world is filled tweets on Twitter
and texts to Timmy’s tiny little brother.
Excuse me please,
I’ll take a super-sized Facebook
but please
leave out homework
because I’d like a tall glass of procrastination.
I’ll take a ride on the super highway that is a cell phone.
Mile long texting to the person right next to me.
  Hey generation X take a seat
and have a laugh at generation TEXT.
I’d like to be the first to say welcome to end of conversation.
Please take a look around
but you might miss the latest drama
if you happen to glance down.
Life is quick
, easy
and painless
but didn’t momma always teach us that that **** was dangerous?
But, hey,
what can I say to change the minds of those who have change their ideas on life about a hundred million times.
I’m just another face in the crowd that has a phone out and my face down.
Whatever happened to actually speaking words that could open doors and let loose a sense of humanity?
Would you like to know answer?
Well here it is....
wait,
I have check Facebook.

I've been locked in a prison.
My chains double binding,
clinching on skin follicles.  
I speak to the emptiness
My echo won't reply,
afraid of the beasts unseen.
I look toward the stars
this 7x7 just got a bit bigger.
I see the winter halo,
The angels surround the moon.
maybe,
they could surround my heart.

Sand paper bags scratch empty city streets, like nails on chalkboards.  It’s amazing how silence can be scary.  I gaze upon empty playground grass, the rampant, rapacious children are no longer able to climb jungle gyms to be king of the world.  Why?  I believe someone invited the Devil to dinner. He scorched earth and burnt tears in barren city streets, I alone see the beauty in the destruction.  Amongst anguish and anger, lies pure serenity.  An ending is just as beautiful as a beginning, like light to files, I’m addicted to pain.  If you’ll allow me, I’d like to show you how demise is perfect.  It’s starts with a smile, broken.  Too many demons spiting languages of hot lava that sounds similar to the solar maximum, It’s my mind that breaks from reality.  Unstable and unappreciated, pain is the only way I can rid the stress, So I have believed.  Starting like a headache, addicting like ****** or cough syrup, The rush of blood spiraling round my upper thigh is something I used to look forward to,
It was the only thing I could say I did for myself.  
Moments spilled into months, months pouring into one self-inflicting year, If only I could show the buckets I filled with the sadness I was afraid to share with the world.  I finally put the blades away when I made a mother watch her baby boy dig scissors into his wrists.  Rosy-red cheeks and rain-drop tears slipping down her face was enough to know I could I do better. I needed to do better.  So, I washed the blood away, erasing every past memory I thought I should regret.  I know life is no ethcy-sketch, the marks I once was proud of bare the same weight of shame.  I consider my addiction to be my savior.  If I never landed on rock bottom, I would never know the power it takes to stand back up.  Now I wake among empty city streets, Sand paper bags sit silently, It’s amazing how silence can be comforting.  I alone see the beauty behind the monster that tore apart my freckled canvas. I look at the Devil in the mirror.
Dinner is finished.

He’s broken promises and lifetime regrets.
He might not win daddy of the year,
he spends his evenings and early mornings wishing he could’ve been a better father.  He’s not a role model,
he made mistakes.
He smoked the things he couldn’t,
he forgot the things he shouldn’t.
He’s so much more.
A leader
an army of youth at his side,
spiting fire that he lit the flame to.
He opened the doors to our poetry,
letting us become the people who we are and what we want.
I never liked having my work judged continuously, until I met him.
His judgement is not for life or death
, it’s for the words I could never speak unless I wrote them.
  A friend,
with the best advice,
a man with a past is a man with experience.
  He can tell you all about late, hazy nights in smoke-filled hotel rooms and polite crack heads in Portland, Maine.
  A man,
willing to address his mistakes and send them flying back to their rightful place,
the past.
He’s the toughest man I know and the only father-figure I like to look up to.
He is.
A role model.
Because,
contrary to popular understanding, a past of mistakes leads to a future of knowledge.
  If I become half the man he is,
I’ll know I’ve lived my life as a good man.
  I can see passion in every word as a slightly under-confident man shoots bullets with poetic lines that can make a room,
pretty **** quiet.
Most doesn’t see him like I do.
  They see tattoos and “*******’s” and assume he a part of the lost youth.  
They’ll never know he’s the compass leading us out of the cave of darkness.
I see a man who smokes too much because he cares for every poet who steps to a mic.
  I see broken promises and lifetime regrets.
He’s all of those things but,
in reality.
He’s.
So.
Much.
More.

It’s more than friendship for us.  We’re closer than that.  we never needed the same blood to call each other brothers.  We bleed similar ideas and thoughts, like telepathy is our only way to communicate.  We’re linked in ways most will never know, See, we’re cut from a different cloth. In our ragged robes we feel like kings because we know we have the greatest jester at our sides. Mind that this is a love poem, love for my friend, my brother, my phone call at 1 am, chatting about everything and anything.  I never walked down streets with such confidence before. his are my guard rail, stopping me from slippery streets and inattentive eyes.  I don’t think we can count the times we’ve defined our code.  It’s not a code of arms, we don’t need to arm ourselves with each other at our sides.  I’ve gone from the boy I was to a man I want to be, thanks to him.  I don’t think he’ll ever understand how much he’s done for me.  It’s been such roller coaster ride, dating best friends and losing loves, we stuck by each other, Spartan warriors would be proud.  He’s like a spider web.  Hidden in small spaces of serenity.  He catches anything that we need to survive and destroys anything that could harm me.  serendipitously our friendship evolved like Pikachu and Squirtile.  We have that Pokemon type of bond, I’ll choose you, every time.   No one will understand when I say, Saving him from SunKist liquids is our defining “broment.” See, in that moment having a bottle rise to his lips, I knew that he needed me to tell him the dangers that lie ahead, as he’s have done for me countless time.  Now, It could have been the time you  told me you hated me in middle school, or the time you tried to save me from a fire breathing dragon. He became the one person I can count on, in a world where a clock ticks too quickly.  It’s you and me against the world, They don’t know what they got themselves into.  We are soldiers, brothers at battle, we start wars with words because our poetic voices are needed in the struggles of a lost generation.  But,  we don’t need to take up arms, we pick pens and write the words that no one has the heart to say.  Our words prove that we never needed the same blood to call each other brothers.  Because it’s more than friendship for us.  We’re closer than that.