Unreality had started to set in for weeks now.
And all the while knowing a simple sentence could cure;
I ran from the words that I feared to conjure.

Today I thought of the might of the pen.
While stronger than the sword, its duty is at its end.
Most of my writing is on screens and keyboards.
How many generations before its metaphorical might,
Is something that new writers lose sight?

These days, I visualize all words written, as reality's stitching.
A way to dress the wounds of waiting.
A way to hide from a world of my making.

Titles itch the aching belch,
screaming at the wrists to abide.
Yet no sentence is written,
only a ponder of the mind.
Etched surfaces breathe sentiment,
and kindness stares on through;
the harsh reality begins to set in
as the words drivel in time.

Hours pass admitting defeat,
Hands plead against the weight,
as the heart begins to ache.

The relaxation settles on,
Realizing no pages have turned,
Maybe the words have no life,
After all, everything is scorned.

I would never admit it
But I do think it
I know you will always be in my life
Because I worry
With all the pills you pop
That one day you won't talk to me
Not because I'm blocked
But because you won't be alive to talk

It's been a quick minute since I last wrote a poem
I used to write like it was the end of days
but now I can't seem to find the words to say
I don't know why but the words seem to drift away
it is what it is I suppose but hey, at least I'm back
ready as ever to write till the end of days.

Time flies so fast,
That I'm stuck,
Paralyzed
Watching
As my words
Drift away....
As I fade...

Into..

Nothing.

Here she comes, a runaway train

I chase her, pleading
Please, baby
Take me back!

She doesn't hear me,
(She is a train)
And speeds off.