I wanted to write a poem for you.
I really did. And I tried. You deserve an epic.
I don't understand why it won't just fall out of me
The way my tooth did last year, or a swear does any day-

I didn't get why I couldn't put you into words,
packaged neat, edited well. Simple.
It should be, I thought. It's established.
You know. I know. It's clear. Sky's blue.

And perhaps that's exactly it.
I love you so simply I cannot complicate it.
I love you so wholly there's no room to doubt it.
I love you in a way that is reciprocated, complete,
entirely inscrutable to me. For once in my life, I am tongue tied.

You would think I could write a poem about that.
You would think I could write a book about you
then sell it on Oprah's couch, humble-smug
insufferably smitten and fulfilled.
But I can't. I didn't write this story. It happened to me.

You happened to me. And we're both still a little...
bewildered, might be the word. It's been years,
it's not new, it's not puppy love that brings you home to me.
And we didn't expect this, we never felt that it was owed,
or knew the world even had any of this left in it.

And yet, quietly. If I could just shut up and listen.
The epic writes itself, it isn't forced, it isn't marketable,
But it's true, innately woven into the feeling that I
am now home wherever we go. I learned to speak in tongues,
I ate a dictionary, I wrote until my eyes and fingers were crimson
but I simply could not write something this good.

Dark caverns of cranium so vast they get lost in the immense black abyss

There are zero ways to depict the frustration that writer's block is

The sentence fragments stab wounds into soul until blood is gushing out

The only method I know how to start mending is to verse something sane

A poem that can untangle the knot of multiple conflicting emotions winding it's way through my skeleton

Nothing comes to mind, each stroke and word aches inside me.

A fleeting thought coming up dry in my throat.

My temple, empty and abandoned.

Only traces of wine left, They have forsaken me.

They have cursed me, ripping out what made me alive.

I no longer hear the future only sinister laughter

Under the altar is a reminder of what could’ve been.

They think I am undeserving.

They know I would rather die than be nothing.

Why make me believe it?
-Percy

Lost lines
withered fruit upon the vine
which snuffs a lighted candle
in the writers mind
the skull, that egg
which once was full and round
now echoes, hollow with the sound
of missing words no longer found

The more words I learn
The more apt I get at conveying the precise notion
But
The more words I learn
The further I separate myself from those I’m writing to

I cannot explain to those
That I need to hear me
In such a way which is meaningful
To them
for me

I toil on
Learning to say something simpler
Clearer
Despite the barrage of stimulus I wish to demonstrate
I toil on
Saying what's been said
Stealing greater sculptors scalpels


I am undone

I'm not a big fan of flies,
but I don't hate them.
I don't really like pies,
but I can make them.

I love my life, and can
fake it when I don't.
I could go on with
this poem, but it's
the end, so I won't.

When the mind lies fallow
do not weep
or think all birds have flown
from bitter dying earth
where nothing grows or ever shall
calm yourself
your barren land is merely sleeping
thoughts like seeds must wait
and feel the warmth of spring before they flower
they will come again
to drink the light and taste the air
green shoots
from roots you never knew were there