Everything I write, everything I draw; delete

The things I create, I cannot complete

Is it being insecure or being lazy?                                                            ­                                                                 ­     

I don't know how to be a productive lady                    

I feel stupid                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                                  

Since I can't anything executed

My work lives in the recycling bin

It's close in resemblance to a din

The backspace key is faded

My soul is abraded

I hate that I can't articulate

Does anyone else relate?

At least this poem is finished but it has no real end                                                              ­                                

I hope it shows what I intend

A flower grows in the garden, blue.
When summer comes it comes to you.
When winter comes it turns from new
to the ghastly grey of once was good.

The Hebrew King David sings it once
everyone tunes in as if he stopped the time
it's a song sang in every mother tongue!

It's a sea of tunes flows on the shore of the body
outpours and dances fashioning in both science and art
waxes through every vein and reaches out to the heart.

Folks love to take a dip in this same mellifluent cloud
but it's as varied as all the different mother tongues,
the one rhymes with all floats across the world.
Over all the different rivers that may zigzag
It knows the way because from the ocean they all come.

i wrote you
a letter every day
letters to tell you
just how i feel

written in neat, curved
writing i told you
just how sweet
i thought you were
how you made my heart
glow

letters in which i wrote
with various colors of ink
pouring out my whole being
to you

i wrote you
a letter every day.

i wrote you letters in which
i told you how you made me
bloom.

eventually
i found myself
pressing harder on
the paper
than i had before.

creating tears in them
similar in shape
and size
as the ones
inside of me.

i began to send
letters
with creases
and bumps
and stains
splattered with tears

pouring
from my eyes

as i wrote
the anger
bubbling within me.

my last letter
addressed to you
contained
no words

but was blank.
because
i had none that

could reach
as far

and deep

into the cracks
of my
heart

to describe
just
what you

had left
of me.