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.

Ideas,
thoughts,
flood to and fro in my mind,
but none pour
out of my pen.
For these words are stuck,
stumbling,
rushing,
flying,
around in my head.

Mind block feels like a curse,
for it is an empty purse of ideas.
Because as an artist,
you are broke.

I try to defy my mental block,
I scrape my head,
becoming harsher on myself
as I force emotions to be penned
into words.
But all what comes is
incoherent, inadequate,
dots and strokes.

The words are fleeting,
they've lost their meaning.
Out of synch,
out of thought,
out of ink.

Writer's block,
is where I sink.