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.