And as I write these lines,
I long even as my fingers dance,
forming the potential
to be better.

And as a writer,
as a appreciater,
a critiquer,
a lover of words in general,
I find lately even insecurity here, among what I've always loved the most, where I've always felt the most free...

In my passion, I can't... find... words!
Is this what writer's block is?

Ughhhhh!

It's the fragmented relationships and the attempts.
It's the strength you have to believe is in there,
somewhere
It's the hope for the future and the bible verses that hold me,
and you,
together.
It's the tears and the shame and the relatable lyrics
that hold you,
like a warm blanket after hours of terribly poetry in a cold, windowless room,
that cradle us in our flammable youth,
that extinguish the flames of potential misery,
that relay the truth after months of running from just that.
I don't want to feel this way anymore.
The simple lies are, I don't know what I'm blindfolding myself against.

Sense?
What for?
Who needs to make that?
These words are the fragmented seashells alongside the shore of my emotions.
As often as you find a sand dollar whole,
will my poetry (or lack thereof)
appeal to anyone besides the lies personified that reside in my flammable heart.

I can't really express much,
but think of my heart's condition as that of a bed bathed in the filtered light of a curtained window.
Small slits of optimism, amidst suffocating sheets of thoughts.

The others don't see the smile that wavers so easily,
the balance held so precariously.
A sunset postponed again, and again,
like the tide that teases
a desert with hourly breezes.

(Gosh, today's a **** writing day, isn't it?)
I feel like my heart bleeds with all the words unsaid.
I have to write something.

I don't crave the face that is yours,
nor the arms that have held so many,
since me.

I can't say my eyes have experienced drought
since you
And though it kills me to admit it,
The strength I thought I always possessed was diluted by the blood of those who felt the same
since us.
It wouldn't be lies to confide that I miss so much of you,
and that the sheer cliches of youth & love hold true now.
But still I can't find fault in myself.
I did it all.
For you.
For us.

So now it's aggressive scarring and angry eyes,
behind the company of my closest,
in front of your silence.
Prayers prayer prayers,
and waiting (in line?) for nothing less than the help that
comes
assuredly,
abundantly,
from my faith.

What the **** is wrong with you, anyway?
You're more, or less, than somebody I used to know.
You're a stranger.

I can't really express much,
but think of my heart's condition as that of a bed bathed in the filtered light of a curtained window.
Small slits of optimism, amidst suffocating sheets of thoughts.

The others don't see the smile that wavers so easily,
the balance held so precariously.
A sunset postponed again, and again,
like the tide that teases
a desert with hourly breezes.

(Gosh, today's a **** writing day, isn't it?)
I feel like my heart bleeds with all the words unsaid.
I have to write something.

I don't crave the face that is yours,
nor the arms that have held so many,
since me.

I can't say my eyes have experienced drought
since you
And though it kills me to admit it,
The strength I thought I always possessed was diluted by the blood of those who felt the same
since us.
It wouldn't be lies to confide that I miss so much of you,
and that the sheer cliches of youth & love hold true now.
But still I can't find fault in myself.
I did it all.
For you.
For us.

So now it's aggressive scarring and angry eyes,
behind the company of my closest,
in front of your silence.

What the **** is wrong with you, anyway?
You're more than somebody I used to know.
You're a stranger.

I can't write for **** when someone's watching me write.

Nevertheless,
I can't even began to express in any sort of poetic text the chaos in my deepest hearts of hearts. It's like every promise and every word have built an indestructible fortress of confusion and I'm finding there is always only a couple minutes left when I need time, and a long stretch of ticking, scarring hands when all I long for are the hours to possess.

So now I'm
reaching out blindly.
with prayers and intimacy
and sunsets and babbling brooks of quietness.
Is this what healing has left me?
Everything on the surface stings
And healing for good is but a breaking of my will away.
I can't find my freedom, though it's but a breaking of my will away.
I see you and every inch of my nonexistent remedy runs from me.
I hope, I pray.

Someday
You
Will
Leave -- Love---
Me too.