Folding thoughts like origami
fortress of the hectic army
a sea of fans cheering wildly
and nothing certain waning mildly.

A pile of notes and bloated files of writings,
the little terrors these forgotten worlds invite in.
A choir of friendly voices turning choices into stressful hourly junctions degrading your peace and eroding your mental function.

I write in lines the complex as the simple but between them find a blurred reflection, a swirling mirror in which I seek answers but find only an ever increasing number of questions.

A poem a day keeps the doctor away.
Get flowing and pay tribute in text
don't get vexed that you're now in a challenging place
just relax and give it your best.

The turbulent scene is a flurry of fiends
but you're fine if you write the lines
you'll be safe from the clutter and strife of things
as long as you put in the time.

Do I rhyme, do I rhyme, do I redefine?
With the keys that I clatter
do I shape black matter
do I channel the ink, do you think?

Well I try, I permit
for a time I will sit
and get to the bit
where I rhyme on the slither
of white placed before me
the colour that bores me
until the words hit.

I'm cursed with a terrible mindset
I forget all the good of this world
There's evil afoot, and I know of such
but of love am I rarely reminded.

I long for the abstracted season,
when the world's undone at the seams.
When wild gods come knocking, the cradle stops rocking
and insolence bows down to reason.

I yearn for the coming of laughter.
For the chill wind to tell me the tune.
The song still resounding thereafter,
as we walk past the relics and runes.

I'd show you the gift of the rainstorm.
But few would sit and see.
The Otherland is all around.
But no one's got the key.

A mind, I'm trying to find a mind
to read to help me get refined,
so that my guise may come to hide
behind my shallowness of mind.

But friends are few, and far between
a while it's been since I have looked upon them,
so I'll love the world
a little less while I'm without them.

Still I'll push on, borrow a breath
to test the mind out of context
to get to know someone I've made
but I will slow with each delay.

And now I write in Jic and Saw
my people are in pieces
I might just try to talk about
completely different species.

For those you know cannot be faked
but you can take a part and break
the pieces off until you have
a species for the minds you make.

My head is empty,
I think there's a hole,
Because every time I fill it up,
It all seems to go.
Did my inspirations take a walk,
Is my talent wandering?
Where are my thoughts,
One empty head,
That's all I've got.

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