and
I miss the way I use to write constantly. the way words, feelings and emotions surrounded me, grabbing me ever so tightly. bringing meaning into my life. the way my words cut the silence, like a cut from a knife. man how I was so powerful and just so sure. now I find myself carefully choosing words. I think I lost sight of what it really meant to write. not so much thinking but just allowing my words to take flight. pulling you closer allowing you to feel exactly how I feel. **** so real, for a moment your soul is what I steal. I felt like I lost it, like I was just lost in the world. another being trying to find peace but my thoughts in a swirl. can i capture your soul like I use to do. of course I can. I was solely… made for you. I was made so you’d b able to feel me. for you to capture who I am. free willingly.
tap into my mind and inhale thee.
　well look at that, Im alive b

Creativity is like an ambrosia,
Which artists **** sweetly from the fingers of the muse.
A drop at a time is all we're given,
Because it is the most lethal of all drugs.

To be without it creates a void,
Somewhere--we're not sure exactly,
But we feel it.

There is a golden goblet within the mind of every creator,
And it sits waiting to be filled with creativity,
So we can once again pick up our brushes, our chisels,
Our pencils and pens,
And longingly wait for that sweet drop of ambrosia.

Staring at blank screen
Dark night and caffeine
From wasteland trying to inspire
Barren- and true to nature I desire
To have what I can’t hold
To possess what can’t be sold
Life to fill this mortal frame
Not with child but with flame
In vacuum of my own making
All things numb to stop me breaking
Can’t survive like this for long
I imagine myself strong
Force my eyes to adjust
Force myself to trust
That the night holds beauty in a different way
Revealing what can’t be seen by day
But see no purpose to this torture of my soul
Except I know I’ll be stronger when I’ve crawled out of this hole!

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.