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.

I've been going through
a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind.
Writer's block is hell.
It's an empty nest,
a dead baby bird in
the wet grass--ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on
a tombstone.
I'm lost and starving in
the Whiteness.
Why can't I write?
Have I drank my mind
into mush?
The poems don't come like
they used to; the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were
four or five a night.
They swam from the
rivers of my soul.
They were my food and my light,
and my wings.
A good poem is like
smacking the ball out of
the park, or like coming together after
hours of foreplay.
Writer's block is a
limp ****, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It's like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to *****.

Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts, and a
maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are
not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
It pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next
poem a feast.
Blood and feathers will
fall from my chin.
Ambrosia will course through
my veins, and I will
sing and soar from
the depths of my cage.

I haven’t written in weeks
but you’re on my mind
and
I can’t keep
my pen from paper .

Sometimes a poem is a
beast you create that
***** and ****** all over
the page.It doesn't need neutered
but it does need
house broken.

i'm tongue tied and pretty out of it
i wish i could care even a little bit
my heart feels like northern nunavut
it's like frozen for the fun of it