Here comes another classic case of writer's block. **** soft, I spew across the white pages. Maybe age is catching up with me. Time has been a friend, but I'm only as good as my last poem. I long for the days when songs filled my heart, where every part of me smelled the rain and the wet dogs, and the streets of Spain. The pain was always fodder, the joy, the sadness the madness of love and *** and passion. The rancid anger and rage became the words of a sage when I broke out the notebook.
Not tonight though, I will wait for the ******* and the blood to simmer in the red dot on the white snow. Patiently waiting for the hemorrhaging of the soul.