I should see a foot doctor.
My knees ache,
and it ain't like I've been
standing up for myself too much
or sitting down too long.
But they sing their song of pain
again, and again, and again.

I don't pen anything anymore,
maybe a jot there or a line here,
so am I a writer?
How long does it take a "while"
to become a "used to"?
I'm no Du Fu.
I'm no Li Bai.
I should say goodbye,
smile and wave as writing
passes me by.

A good story
May very well be
A plot that concludes
However
I've always thought
The most intriguing
Are the ones
Left unanswered

There is a story
That lies in a notebook
On my shelf
Collecting dust
It's only one paragraph long
An undeveloped idea
But an idea nonetheless

It was co-written
By an undiscovered writer
And my ill-equipped self
We wrote an intriguing paragraph
Until
I was hit with writers block

I moved on
Carelessly
To other works
Long novels
Short stories
But still
Nothing more intriguing
Than our one
Brief
Idea

Most days I regret giving up
When I left behind this unfinished thought

And I still wonder
What the story could have been
If it ever continued
From paragraph one

Who knows
Maybe
It’d be a new story all together

All I know
Is that I will most likely never have an answer
But if that paragraph has taught me one thing
It is to develop ideas
Craft paragraphs
And finish stories
Before you put them on the shelf

give me a pen
and I’ll give you
my heart

I used to water my speculation,mixing it with liquid imagery..
then I'd blend it around with subtle stirrings of my thought.
Watching it change from a blank emotion, to something more.
Collecting I used my fingers clasping a way to collect a thin
film of musing swirls and then I'd gently blow..

Little shimmers would collect, floating delicately around
my head. Rainbows of perception, gently encompassing
a moment of a clear rendition. but a reflection only stains
the image held for so long till it dulls in moments before
evaporating in to tears of mist decaying into oblivion.

But then that place where my perceiving waters gently
flowed now seemed more arid than what was previously
perceived. No longer did rainbows form spherically..
No I was just a salt lake of tears, collecting white flakes
of bleached nothingness. My moment was weak, last week
I was serenading imagery now I'm just a dry lake bed.

"My words floated, but now there just dry renditions of
a drought going on in my thoughts"  

*"Were sometimes to thirsty, not realizing that we drank
to fast and the basin of our thoughts have run dry"

I don’t know how to create anymore
Nothing seems good
Nothing seems right
I let moments pass
Turning days into nights
While I sit in my room
Watching sunsets
And staring at the moon

I write of broken
     t e e t h &
deep wounds
nobody can see
d a r k n e s s
     shadows
agony & pain
     it is my
m u s e
that I feast
     on
but I haven't
picked up the
             p e n
in a week
  because the
m u s e
is gone right now
   I feel
strangely
    *h a p p y