I'm a sucker for indie and the blues, and the color of the sky when I'm with you.

I don't remember when the **** my poetry became about pleasing people or getting votes or views.
I don't remember when my writings were only created to be approved by a friend.
I don't know when things became about success or money.
I don't know why it turned into pleasing a lover.
But as soon as it did become about those things, I lost my spark, and suddenly writing was a chore.
I'm done with burning in my small spotlight with nothing flowing on paper,
I just want to be free.
It's time I get back to writing the way I used to.
For my emotion. For my passions. For myself.

My body
is deprived.
a ball and chain weigh down my words
dragging the vowels to the floor where eyes shift during pauses in conversations
My eyes are clouded, goose feathers in my vision.
I need to sleep.
But there's a loose belt in my brain that turns the cogs that lower my garage eyes.
There's something I still want to see before I close my eyes.
I can't seem to find out what it is.
I'll never get rest.

I am constantly torn between wanting to improve myself and wanting to detroy myself.
Drifting in and out of self-love and loathing.