if you were to wait for perfection to start flowing through your brain,
through your veins, through your hand, through the pen, and finally to the paper,
the world would lack a masterpiece
that is your
writing

I want to write so badly
hurts with every line I delete
write about how it hurt this morning
when I woke up alone
when I fell asleep
with someone next to me

The biggest fear that I have as a writer,
Is that I will inevitable recycle old ideas.
Whether this is done consciously or not,
I fear of the complications it may bring.

Does it represent an evolution of past thoughts,
Or is it a compromise and the death of innovation.

Inspiration strikes invariably, but there is novelty.
Yet, this feeling looms, that I'm near the end.

I'd like to believe that I will forever spark creativity.
That as I have always done, new flames will blaze.

But there is too much doubt that a good thing,
Won't keep going for long, and its been long.

Admitting that feels good, and until that time comes,
If it comes at all, I'll have to trust the words in me.

It's something about the way yellow looks in the rain
The way that color makes me take the long way home
Something else about those days I can't remember -
Did I know I was going to forget them when I walked by?
And there was something too - about that fish I had that lived too long
And how I knew it was gone - where did it go?
There's something there -
I think I heard it in the frog song inside those warm summer nights
From under Orion's belt when I counted myself to you
Where do my somethings go when they are gone?
Are they resting in those smiles I never learned to crawl out of?
It's something about one moment to the next
And how they collect like pennies in a jar
Something about that yellow and the long way home