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

Lost lines
withered fruit upon the vine
which snuffs a lighted candle
in the writers mind
the skull, that egg
which once was full and round
now echoes, hollow with the sound
of missing words no longer found

The more words I learn
The more apt I get at conveying the precise notion
But
The more words I learn
The further I separate myself from those I’m writing to

I cannot explain to those
That I need to hear me
In such a way which is meaningful
To them
for me

I toil on
Learning to say something simpler
Clearer
Despite the barrage of stimulus I wish to demonstrate
I toil on
Saying what's been said
Stealing greater sculptors scalpels


I am undone

I'm not a big fan of flies,
but I don't hate them.
I don't really like pies,
but I can make them.

I love my life, and can
fake it when I don't.
I could go on with
this poem, but it's
the end, so I won't.

When the mind lies fallow
do not weep
or think all birds have flown
from bitter dying earth
where nothing grows or ever shall
calm yourself
your barren land is merely sleeping
thoughts like seeds must wait
and feel the warmth of spring before they flower
they will come again
to drink the light and taste the air
green shoots
from roots you never knew were there

I forget the way to fill



an empty space.

How do I create
when all I've done is erase?

ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʀʏɴᴀ ᴊɪɴx ᴍʏsᴇʟғ
ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ’s ʙʟᴏᴄᴋ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀ
ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ɪᴛ’s ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏssᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴄᴋs ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴀ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇs ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ sᴡᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ
ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ɪᴛ’s ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ
ᴇxᴛʀᴀᴠᴀɢᴀɴᴛ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ
ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ɪᴛ’s ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ɪ ʟᴇᴀᴘᴇᴅ ᴏғғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘʟᴀɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴅᴇʟɪʀɪᴏᴜs ʜᴀᴢᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀʏ
ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴘʟᴜᴍᴍᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ sᴏ ғᴀsᴛ ᴘᴀᴄᴇᴅ
ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴀᴄʜᴜᴛᴇ ᴅᴇᴘʟᴏʏᴇᴅ
ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ɴᴇᴡ ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛs ɪ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪ’ᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴇᴇ
ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ɪᴛ’s ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɢʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ғɪʀᴇᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ sᴋʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ sᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛ
ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴀʀs, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɴᴇᴛs
sᴍɪʟɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴀs ɪғ sᴀʏɪɴɢ
“ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ɪᴛ.”
ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴀᴅᴏᴡs sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴀᴛ ʜᴀɴɢᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ ᴅʀᴇssᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴅs
ɪ ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴀғʀᴀɪᴅ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ
ɪ ʙᴀsᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ɪᴛ
ᴅᴇᴇᴘʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴅʟʏ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛɪʟʟɴᴇss ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ
ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ sᴇᴇᴍs ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ɪs ᴘᴇʀғᴇᴄᴛʟʏ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ
ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏ ғɪɴɢᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟᴜsᴇᴅ
ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ sɪɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏssᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴅᴏᴜsᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴇɴɪsʜ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ
ғᴀʟʟ ғɪʀsᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ
ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ғᴀʟʟ ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏsᴇ ɪɴ ʟɪғᴇ
ᴀɴᴅ sᴏ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ’s ʙʟᴏᴄᴋ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀ
ᴡᴏᴡ, ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜɪs ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏғ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪs sᴇᴠᴇʀᴇ