Abstract writing;
Using figurative words with no objective.
Writing streams of consciousness, that simply documents a perception of the now;
without ego or restraint.

(((Just write now, and make sense of it later;
It will always make sense when you give it a title.
(((A label)))((( A meaning)))

Words drift, past the pages and recollection.
Some skip just above a stream of consciousness.
Others hurdle by, accelerating into shapelessness.

A fisherman of thought.
Praying the last of his bait,
feeds him, just another day.

As the days blend together,
and the current thrashes on,
hope is a face on the water.

He’s filled his belly with persistence,
but the need for creation lives on.

Cast the line.
Spin the rhyme.

Feast on the dreams of tomorrow.

the thinker stains /
the implement
numb of pain
touches page /
ink drains /
soak /
vein /
cool
and coagulate /
stoppered in /
in order to heal /
currently flocked /
to the wound /
the thinker blocked

I think it’s time to say goodnight,
My words are no longer In flight,
There are many things I want to say,
But these rhymes are leading me astray,
So goodbye my friends just for now,
I’ll comeback one day when I’ve figured how!

There once was a poet who moved
With words as a crutch, through the days
He knew where to get a new one
To support him through life, always.

But the time came that he was lost
In a forest, hungry and tired
He couldn't find the way back home
His word of the day had expired.

And so he lay in wait till dawn
So he'd have a clearer mind
He resolved to visit the store
For an anchor that sounded kind.

Month after month, year after year
Passed slowly as he searched in vain
Until he couldn't walk a step
So then he crawled, wailing in pain.

He'd known this would happen to him
'Writer's block', a feared condition
That attacked those forged from language
There was no cure for this affliction.

And soon the town forgot their names
The woods became haunted in grief
Of poetic ghosts that long for words
In damnation without relief.

love is driving so fast, stopping feels going backwards
down the interstate up the other side of a town our parents warned us about
love is counting days and losing track of nights because this is all i know
love is cutting up your favorite t shirt because sometimes the extra weight on your shoulders is just too much
love is the song on the album you never gave a chance because it just rubbed you the wrong way
love is saying that this time will be better
love is watching a receipt get stepped on and over but not putting it out of its misery because it is not your job
love is why
not how or when or who
love is why

The screen stares back into my tired eyes
as if snow fallen freshly from the starless sky.
My fingers rest upon random keys
as a sailor stuck on calm, unmoving seas.
The thoughts suspend inside my head
as if I were a corpse, freshly dead.
I am a writer who cannot write
as if I were the moon without a night.