i'm sorry
to the girl i yelled at because i was angry

i sat staring at the call back button
thinking about how much of an ******* i was

and all the words i can't take back

Didn't realize she was missing,
Hadn't noticed she was gone,
'till I looked down at my hands and realized how long
It had been,
Since I picked up a pen.

Her whispers, like secrets,
Always finding my ears,
Her light in my eyes,
Her soul in my tears.

Now dashed away, silent,
Mind as blank as the page,
Afraid this is the end,
Last call,
Leave the stage.

No. I refuse.
As long as I speak,
I will find words to use.
I will be my muse.

the poet's words are terribly weak, and his mind so terribly sore and dry.

those words without luster do not pierce the thick act of life, and do not interrupt the rhythmic rotting of metro-corpses as they live lives thrice lived and lived over again.

words dulled and dumb, like word-plugs, deliver no pleasure, and those who try to force them into the tender pink cochleae of springtime azaleas are rapists,
the worst kind.

the poet's words are terribly few,
the volumes that once came forth, like falling floods, now spat with force from
fearfully pursed lips.

the words shiver and dissipate like glass upon contact with the broken floor, writhe flinch and eventually curl up into burnt remnants of clay "animals."

what once could have been a
zebra, dog, or sparrow takes no audible, tangible shape. and the pulse, if there is one, cannot be heard over the deafening croak of silence, for these words are as good as dead.

...
.....
...

But all the ideas have turned stagnant
In the little idea lake in my mind

And the little idea fishermen are all sitting there, waiting and waiting
and waiting, for a little idea fish to come along

But the idea lake is stagnant,
and stinky, and rotten.

And there's a little legend going around
About a monster that lurks near the idea lake

Who eats the little idea fishermen if they stay
For too long, so..

They don't stay for long.
So they never catch any idea fish.

So, that's why I couldn't write a little something.
But I thought I'd write a little nothing instead.

Like a path out of the forest hidden beneath the snow, there seems to be some grand idea just below the surface. Dreamlike inspiration quickly fading like footprints in the drift. Our survival depends on our ability to scratch pen to paper and hand to head to make something tangible from thought before it vanishes.
That impassible white, equally mesmerizing and infuriating in its indifference. The page cares not for our words, yet we demand it be filled. We stumble through words and stutter our thoughts, grabbing loose metaphors from the air like snowflakes, only to watch them melt away from our pen.
Yet as many times as we retire in exasperation is as many times that we'll start again. For the drive to create and the need to relate outweighs our torturous view of the craft. Soon enough winter will break and words will sprout forth from the fertile ground of our minds. Bountiful metaphors and analogies will ripen for the picking and the path that has been there all along will be realized. Only then will we know for certain that spring has sprung again.

That blinking line mocks me
I can not move forward
nor can I reverse back
I am cemented in this moment of ambiguity

That blinking line mocks me
I have an idea of a destination
but with no path to follow
So I stay at the beginning tormented by the possibilities


But that blinking lines mocks me
My mind is a chaotic storm of ifs wheres and whats
But I have a story that must be told
It has a start and I'm revving to go

When you look at the page,.
and there are no words.
Your mind is spinning.
It only disturbs.

Searching and searching
you spend a lot of time..
Your mind is wandering
for that perfect rhyme.

Sometimes it takes a while
and it stresses you out.
You have a gift for poetry
so no need to pout.