I think my problem, in relation to last year’s writer’s block, is that I wish to write about me, and I wish to write about the world, and I’ve been waiting all this time for these things to extend beyond you. It’s as if I had been waiting for this poignant moment where someone—anyone— would announce that my life could begin again, as if continuity would seamlessly occur once the halt in time had pursued for long enough.

What a shock it would be to discover that the world waits.

(It doesn’t.)

In this time, I cut my hair and I let it grow. I looked in the mirror, hair falling halfway down my back like velvet drapes, keeping the sun out of my space and solitude, and I felt the power slipping away from my body. I knew that I needed to find a way to hold on to this power, one that was rooted in my own flesh and my own vision rather than yours.

(I did.)

I don’t get as lonely when I see crowds or busy streets or lights that remind me of you, drunk and obscene — laughing with your head thrown back, eyes glimmering like the Vegas strip. We slipped into an intimacy that, in retrospect, was simply me having a first-time love affair with myself. No hands were strange hands up until this point— no hands except my own. Trembling against my collar bone, realizing that what you gave to me was a home to live in. I look up. No ceilings, no roof, just space. The wars, they’re far away from here. I look up, find my power. It’s been here all along.

Resting in the unclenched fist, in the phone that remains unplugged on the bedside table. My power is in the hand that brushes the inside of my thigh, my power is in forgetting how to say I’m sorry when I’m less than quiet, when I forget how to bite my tongue. I keep looking up.

Blissful starry skies,

Atomic wasteland,

Wonder and boredom live side-by-side.

I am in you. You, in me. Open those velvet drapes you used to hide behind, child-like, curious but afraid of your own flesh, of your hot temperament.

The Sun goddess is rising in the East, raining on the wild seeds of May. I, body of water, offer myself to a new seed, grow like the deciduous plants of the Northern world, a whole forest dizzy from bliss and impermanence.

Thank you for visiting.

Here I sit,
watching the reflection of my past grandeur mock me from within it's folded paper pages.
The ink letters dance a mirage of bittersweet enjoyment in the face of my frustration.
The drawings of flowers twist and curl over the lines in the book,
clutching onto every word,
every syllable of woe written amongst the leaves.
Faces fall from petal soft whispers,
and within their atramentous eyes
I find myself lost.

I want to write for you
But the words they flee me
And as I keep writing, keep forcing it,
it only gets worse and worse

If only you knew
how many of these 'poems' of mine,
mere bits of language mashed forcefully together,
are resting in my draft box,
resting there for ever,
barely never to be revisited again

And yet I don't stop
sitting here when I should long since
be fast asleep
Because I fear that I'm leaving you here
with all of these unexpressed, never said sound-things
I fear I dread I worry I am afraid
When I should be embracing you

What is wrong with me
How
Have I been drained of creativity
How
Can I force words out of me
How
Can I do what I love when it's been taken from me
What did I do so wrong
For my own poetry to leave a funny taste in my mouth?

November is full of change,
And I swear that on my own grave.
And soon after November passes,
I swear on my mothers ashes,
Nothing will be the same.

When all you want to do is create,
But all your creations are struck solid-
As if passed through by the gaze of Medusa.
Massive waves of destruction churn and rage,
As if tragedy was the true mother of Aviendha.

And October’s anxieties are much too real
In the face of November’s wounds to heal.
December’s arrival is both relief and restraint;
From grandmother wreaths and 4 year old birthday cakes.

20 came and went and so far I have not succumbed
To the throes of dear death’s mighty blows
And I guess the real test is surviving the age of 21.
And see the difference
between my parents,
To see the difference
between me and them.

November’s change is soon to arrive-
It will not carry me from the burden of being alive,
And sometimes I can’t tell if that plea is for something beyond immortality:
The kind of thing the mortal wouldn’t believe.

November’s change is hot on our tails
And I know, that if all else fails,
I have a love stronger than the
Intermittent call of death.
Meet me on the other side,
The in betweens and underneaths
Meet me in our last breath
And the glaze that covers our eyes.
Meet me where we can make every end meet.