I miss writting
letting words flow.
I miss the rush of catching all the ideas when my hand was too slow.
I miss the need of putting on paper what I felt,
of having to stop everything before I could forget.
I miss feeling inspired by the smallest thing,
a song, a phrase, your voice, your hair.
We took different ways
and you took away my words
but I kept all the love.

My mind was metal trapped,
on a midnight melted hour.
Standing softly on my guard,
I had fallen from my tower.
I tumbled and I tolled,
in my heart for a time,
then watched the world come crashing,
come flowering in rhyme.

A trek to the golden peak,
of clarity of every kind,
she had taken up earnestly
as her singular mission all along.
Near  the  upper reaches,
at the difficult terrain,
without any admonition,
an avalanche.
Her ego, frozen and hardened,
rushed towards her,
blocked further progress,
for ever,
like a wall of resistance.
She tried her best
to venture forward,
but she had lost the path
completely by then
and didn't know which way to turn.

I've got a block. It belongs to somebody named Writer.
I'm not getting too far in this life I'm living, either.
My head is swarming, but my pencil is dull.
I guess this **** will have to stay in my skull.
I'm not a kid, but I don't think I'm a grown up.
All of my life, I feel I've let myself be shown up.
I've got it in me. But I guess I've got some demons.
Any shine that I have, they dull it out, "yeah Syn, keep dreamin."
I face my fears, but they always seem to stay with me.
They've been my longest companions, sad reality.
There's a spectrum inside me, but I touch both ends.
I try to live my life as both, but they just cannot blend.
I wanna Rest. And if I'm lucky it'll be In Peace.
But God said to me "Syn, you're not much help deceased."
I met Kurt Cobain. Told him the feeling's mutual.
To finally mute the thoughts I know unmutable.