poets,
come to me,
let's reach the purity of divine,
your spirit to bloom for eternal joy and wisdom,
come catch my hand,
let's fly beyond the earthly veils of time.

Dig Inside Yourself For The Light You Have Been Searching Everywhere.

Sometimes, the words don’t come.

The consistent stream of consciousness, ceases.

I am left with nothing to say.

There is a beauty in the broken mind.

Like an abandoned building taken by nature.

It is not that my mind does not work.

It is that it works too fast,

And I am left behind,

Scrabbling in the dust,

Desperately seeking a connection,

In the discarded fragments of thought.

I am fighting a losing battle.

I fear the white flag will soon arise.

And signal the end.

Writers are the most beautiful of artists.
Complex and unique.
They make the most exquisite, beautiful jewelry.
Every word sends out ripples like water,
sometimes you can see yourself staring back.

Some turn their words into pendants shaped like hearts, and teardrops and all manner of things.
And you can hang them on your heart, or in your head and you'll never take them off.

A writer writes about their monsters, crushes them to coal and uses them to make a forge.

But I, no, a writer I am not.
My words bleed from me, half congealed from the half-dead body they spilt from.
The other half already dust because you must live before you die.
But some people die before they live.

My words, lonely, lingering, they long for more to write about than emptiness.