I breathe
I see
I feel
I yawn
I am alive

I shake
I stress
I moan
I grunt
I am here

I believe
I cry
I touch
I react
I am fine

I caress
I claw
I spank
I bite
I shake
I am ecstatic

I rest
I dance
I walk
I strut
I even run
I am healthy

I drink
I smoke
I talk
I hug
I like
I love
I am still here

I speed
I lash out
I headbang
I folk dance
I hold your hand

I fall
I stand
I tip toe
I walk in circles
I slide

I glance
I enjoy
I fight
I sit back
I sacrifice
I befriend
I help
I think

I write
I sing
I narrate
I block
I break
I create

I am blessed

Hello my old friend.
I guess it’s nice to see you again.
You’ve been visiting me so much lately.
Nothing in my head is forming anything straightly
It’s all jumbled and clouded and mixed.
I don’t know how this problem can be fixed
Writer’s block has gotten a hold on me!
It just won’t let my writings be!
I used to be able to write poem after poem,
But now I’m lucky if I even get a quote done.
Maybe if I shoot myself in the head
The creativity will spill out all over my bed.
I want to make a name for myself!
But right now, I just see my book on a dusty shelf.
I continuously tap key after key
Why won’t any nice rhymes come out of me?
I keep on searching and searching
I do all of my researching
On the topics I need to write
Yet nothing in this poem seems right
I want to write about my personal experiences.
But right now my book is on clearance.
I don’t feel good enough to make it in this industry
I don’t want to let this blank mind stop me
Yet it feels as if I have no choice.
It feels as if I have lost my voice.
Writer’s block is Ursula in the deep sea
She made this contact with me
I grew my vocabulary but lost my voice
Why did I make this choice?
It’s just mismatched words and no originality
Where is my creativity?
I used to have such a loud mind.
But now everything’s quiet and I mind.

Of course the full first poem I’ve written in a month is about not being able to write.
Sounds like me, I’m just the type.

What does one do when they have no inspiration?
How does an artist stay an artist without a muse?
How does one lonely poet write her most beautiful piece yet without the heartbreak driving her nails?

How can a beauty stand alone,
No lover or wondering eye,
How can she love herself when no one is around to hold her up,
When she tears herself down?

When does inspiration strike?
Is it holding your lovers hand or avenging your fallen warrior?
Is it lying alone in a large unforgiving bed,
With the sounds of your sobs as your dying lullaby?

What is inspiration?
When does it strike?
Maybe at the end of this poem,
I'll find mine.

How very lonely HP is,
In the middle of the night,
Reading long ago poems by friends,
Tapping little red hearts,
Only time I'm available,
After dusk; hours before dawn,
Reposting poems, my fingers just as assailable as Moby ****,
Or Hansel's and Gretel's witch,
I stare at blank, gray suns,
Wishes I, I had some to use,
To uplift; to free,
All the beautiful poetry,
Even the ones with coquetry,
I rapidly kiss plusses with my right thumb,
Adding to worthy collections,
Of addictive confections,
'Till 2,
When alas I sip hot coco,
Scratch my ****,
And fall asleep beside my cat; momo.

I am the sky
That's forever falling
I am the plant
My seeds are sprouting
Basking in her summer sun
Taking in her splendour
Oh, how she comes undone

I see the day
Twinkling at the night
Feeling her endless distance
A constant companion
Urging her to shine so bright

Starlings
Bury and swoop
Upon the horizons
Making meaning
For the senses
Sea licking salt;
She yearns for that
No pretenses

There will come a time
When she no longer questions
Or calculates good intentions
Her arms grasping out
To nurture earth
From up above
A heavenly birth
Will fall and rain
A billion drops
Of inspiration

Smiles
Tiny shards of light
Radiating her true reflection
Like simple words on a page
Reaching a familiar end
Scribbling
Screaming for release.
The writing comes in waves.
*Hello, old friend...

When your thoughts are too vague and you can't fathom where would your ideas go,
When all you need is to scribble down all those but you're too lazy to do,
When you can't help but deny that your childhood dream is now turning blue,
And when all you've written for almost your lifetime were just mediocre and nonsense clue.

Then stop! Take a break and let your hand wander,
Let it feel a different job aside from painting ink in your paper,
Maybe it needs a little time for itself to discover,
And talk to the Almighty God through prayer.

Can’t write,

Don’t know why,

Often scary,

When I try.

good, so good
that's what they say about it-
but when I peer down at the scrawl
led-dragged, so heavily
I know it can never be enough.

bokeh lights and smoke streams
an insignificant metaphor-
just as Love is an understatement.
bullet wounds don't match
how hard You hurt.

discontent gets old
and eight months of displeasure
of dead static psychosis
have rendered me useless;
defined me as dead
to whatever connection I held
with beauty, glory,
understanding.

so good, they say
as the pictures piece together
in the minds hungry eye,
starving to relate,
unknown to the fact
it can never catch the passion;
the poetry is powerless.

It's been hard,
To write since you left.
My words,
They hardly paint,
Anything of,
Substance.
You were my muse,
It seems,
The Clyde to,
My Bonnie,
At least it seems like it,
Anyway.
It's not so perfect,
This situation,
Or you and I.
But *******,
I wish,
You hadn't taken my words,
So far away.