How do we explain a near death experience
Especially when it was the first fresh breath we took
How to explain light
When dark is all that’s ever know
How do you turn to blasphemy
When God’s light directly shines
And enlighten the most important movement of one’s life
How do we even begin to explain
When we died for the last time
Still we can try borrowing quotes
And metaphors, rhymes and tinker of words
Though they will be as useful as trying to eat fire and sip rocks
But how do you stitch a soul into something
When you’ve only known hollow inside
This was how it was
When we saw them for the first time
You don’t realize drowning
Till you touch the surface for the first time
It was a dance slow and steady
Our beings so close even air changed it path
Yet so far way, we couldn’t have been further apart
It was was that time when time didn’t exist
when blood came easy
And breath came harsh
How do we explain them
Without tassing every sorry excuse for a phrase
Into the river in despair
Full of more soul than soulful
And holding more sorrow
Than a broken something in middle of the most beautiful
...One thing
The sole living evidence that god existed
And a sweet sting that The devil is not too far behind
For something so divine cannot exist without
Existence exiting itself
A faithful service, a conspiracy between coincidence and fate
Masters of talking to much and saying nothing
While being too much and existing nowhere
Who bear more meaning than meaning of meaning itself
And holds less meaning that the word iqwbefbl
This is the most accurate description of the time
We saw, when the heart of stone spared a beat
For the first time
And the last time

The pen from my hand, now on the ground.
It rolls, it runs, it leaves.
The words from my mind, the ones meant for my paper, are gone.
They've fallen as well, they ran away.
Blank is my mind
gone are my words.
Fallen is the pen
the depths of which it has ventured through in the past
are now a thing
of the past.

There's something I'm itching to write
but I bite my lips and grip the pencil tight.

Nothing comes to mind.

I write this sentence but it doesn't sound quite right, it doesn't quite capture the essence of tonight.

I stare at the wall, then back at the paper where no words land. My thoughts make my hair stand and I want people to understand.

But my hand doesn't move.

So I sit back and write about not knowing what to write.