When you forget how to do the things you know you love doing
It can feel like the ability that used to come so naturally
Has already soaked into the misshapen stain of nothingness you blame yourself for spilling

It’s contents have already slipped between the floorboards
And escaped from the cracks in your skin before you got a chance to check when they’d be coming back

I haven’t been writing recently
I haven’t been able to
I don’t know why

I don’t know why my right hand can’t find the will to cradle a pen the way it did before
Like my fingers have forgotten their favourite position to make love to lined paper in

A broken down marriage forcing itself to carry on collapsing
Wheels wasting away spoke by spoke with every rotation
Until there is nothing left to support it’s tired turning
Until it falls on it’s side
Disintegrates
And becomes one with the earth it used to roam so proudly

Maybe it’s just rusty
Growing weaker with age
Desperate for an oiling of inspiration
Provoked by the detonation of something bigger than it’s brittle body
Something so furious
so deafening
that the dots that hang on the insides of closed eyes never stop flashing
Even when the world violates fortresses of eyelashes
and pupils learn to dilate on demand

Maybe I’m missing something
Something already there
As plain as the nose on my face
Just north of cupids bow and south of sights for sore eyes

And yet
It still refuses to tell me where
or how to trace the invisibility of a saving grace that mockery comes second nature to

Maybe it’s not meant for me
But then please explain the fragility of such a thing
That threaded itself so delicately into the stitching of my naive and barren soul the first time I made my mouth move
to speak words it only ever spoke in silence

Explain the burning in my belly
Whose smoke rises into my chest with every late night
stage fright
bedroom performance delivered to absent guests whose applause is collected
Kept secret beneath my pillows
Only to emerge in the shapes of dreams
Evaporating with every 6am sunrise that shines through my window

I’ve never been a morning person
Tiredness has turned into a trait rather than a side effect

I find myself falling asleep on buses in the hope that when I wake up I will be somewhere I don’t recognise but always intended to visit
A place littered with billboards advertising what my purpose in life was always meant to be
And a phone number beneath where first come first served gets it for free

Early bird gets the worm
And now my wings only work in the dark
Ever since contracting the corrosive infection that spread all the way to the edges of the veins until it began to bleed but never had the courage to finish the job

Guilt has set so many seeds in my stomach
That a dynasty of doubts has grown it’s own garden
and is using my bones as a trellis
Contradictions can’t capture the cause of a catastrophe
But give the clouds enough time to settle and the dust might tell you why

It’s not that nothing was meant for me
I just don’t think I’m destined for anything
bigger than my body

The one I inhabit daily
On a part-time
rent-free basis

Where autopilot is automatic

We're still waiting for someone else to fix the off switch

If I learn to write again,
I would put into detail how
your eyes turn to steel blue
whenever you ask me about
the future name of our kids
running with their bikes on
Wisteria Lane

I would put into detail how
your morning coffee has the
smell of the sandalwood table
my father gifted my mother on
their 36th anniversary

I would also put into detail how
on nights I cry while struggling to
put three words and a sentence
on crumpled paper, you’d be
there.

There to run your palm over my
soaked shirt and whisper that I will forever be
your favorite writer.

(despite the fact I haven’t written our
grocery lists in months... scratch that, years)

I would learn to write again
to see how your face scrunch up
at every word I misplace or
commas I forget.

If I ever learn to write again,
I would write again for you.

I  have so much I want to say
But not sure how to put it into  words
My feelings out on paper
But my mind  is blocked
I write  but then I take  it away
I  judge myself  while  I tear myself apart
I start over  as my thoughts pour out
Still  thinking to myself
I want to touch people with my words
The negative  cuts in deep
The voice telling me  
Not to write and  just give up
who will I be

The feeling of  writing  
Overtakes me  
Being able  to
Give yourself to   the world
let  your words  tell the story
At  times I feel  free
I open myself up
And hope you can see me for being me.

I've written this story,
Thousands of times in my head.

But when it comes to pen and paper,
I run out of things to be said.

The bard, the mire, the sleuth
His lute, his fear, his truth.

Traveller through time,
His words chill the spine.

Oh, weaver of tales,
Hunter of lies.

Falter not to failure,
Or meet demise.

Songs will save thee,
Open all eyes to see.

Though the devil is in the details,
His chord, echoes on all that fails.

my mouth is filled up with words
that my hands can't translate

...and i'm choking


x.

So as I said,
That there will never be a day,
Where the darkness will devour me as prey,
I mean to say,
That because the crazy mind in my fray,
I am viewed as an equal,
Undefeatable,
Uncontrollable,
But still invadable.
It can show it's self,
Disturbing and disgusting thoughts,
But the damage,
Is only an effect,
Not an affect.
Does that make sense?
As insensible as the blocking fog I described,
Ocean of craziness in a strong side,
Thought can be sensed,
But cannot sense the blocking,
Surpressing,
Unlike emotions like hope or anger,
Fear or any other familiar stranger,
That can be beaten,
Or turned as an ally,
Or weapon to darkness that lie,
It is only a mental sensation,
That I can use or have any time in the day.
Like the darkness,
Only when it is thought of,
Can it become part temporarily,
In my brain.