I can't write like I used to.
I've lost my spark, my fire
and now i’m left with ash.
I've lost my match,
my flare, and muse.
I ignored it for too long
the fire it made was big, passionate, and beautiful
but I let it turn to dust.
And since I lerk for my light
but no match will meet my satisfaction
no fire will ever be the same.

I hunt for happiness
I have a hunger that runs deep
I prowl chase and pounce
still nothing

I feel as if i'm being watched
I turn around
I see nothing

I've come to realize
my head is hunting me
a ghost haunts my body
but doesn't take control
it just puts happy memories in my head
I take away sadness instead
I'm hungry for happiness
I'm going to starve
and end up dead

The sound of his words smoothly rumble
like the belly of a car
And roll off his tongue
like the strum of blues
And though they don't always mate
And smoothly flow
I love to hear those, Mastretta tunes
Come and go

I once wrote a poem titled:
Loving once, and loving once more, is hard.
Though now, I am no longer blind to my own happyness.
Loving once; is hard
Loving once more; is lovely

Wisdom, a wonder
stupidity, a dread
The perception of both
deeply misread.

Wisdom is a rose
beautiful and bountiful
though its spines
cause woe and wounds.

Those who grasp at thee
wicked and wild thorn
will receive a
***** so painful
it will scar your mind
leaving behind,

The tales of the wise.

I was your domino
you set me up and
watched as I fell
as if I were a game
you had me falling over and over again
you watched as I toppled over myself
disordering my mind
as you reassigned
the order that I should fall in
once again
you stood tall
as I fell at your feet