Sometimes a poem is a
beast you create that
***** and ****** all over
the page.It doesn't need neutered
but it does need
house broken.

i'm tongue tied and pretty out of it
i wish i could care even a little bit
my heart feels like northern nunavut
it's like frozen for the fun of it

I write what I want
When I feel like it.
It’s not planned at all
It just happens.

The words seem to flow;
They surround me.
Yet sometimes I can’t
Write at all.

there's a hidden man
he a fan of mirrors
his first name be terror

see this hidden man be
like writer's block and white paper
like planes in skyscrapers

there's a hidden man
skin made of cobweb: an-other
no friend sis or brother

there's a hidden man
wenn er dich packt: renn!
there is a hidden man

he a cheerleader who
became the grim reaper

i sit to write
but words won't come
mind not focusing
thoughts not processing
hope failing

words barely flow, the rivers of my mind are dry
my heart has too many emotions all vying to die
on a page in my notebook, or as code on your screens
but the drought is severe so they stay put in my dreams

i've had it with the writer's block
forced complexes to shut up

just keep on writing
to find my tizzights

Maybe there's a point in everyone's life
When the words just stop feeling good enough
When our literary rivers stop flowing
And writing poems, stories, anything, is tough.

Perhaps we must wait for the ice to melt
When the writer's glaciers will start to thaw
At different, unique times for all of us
And we'll find words again, heartfelt and raw.