At what point
does writers' block
become retirement?

I've been drawing
blanks for six
years straight.

What am I now, if
not a writer? Nothing echos
along the walls of my skull.

But to be nothing is more
poetic an existence than any.
I am not worthy enough

to be nothing.

can you say how you feel?
to shake the head imperceptibly.
please, do not step back.
the zero in the middle of cards.
her hands are trembling, so typical.
i can feel this buzz of colors, like
a crowd in an impressionist painting,
you know what i mean?
same old story.
don’t move.
who’s there?
it’s been a while.
blots of pure color and no identity.
is there anything wrong with what i said?
i turn off the light and dark makes this room smaller.
it’s always a matter of faith.
who are you?
someone in the shadows nods, then sighs and
smiles, full of benevolence.
even smaller.
i need comfort.
you understand when you don’t have to and
you don’t understand anything anyway.
hold the half-moon in the center of your palm.
even more suffocating.
you have all these things to give me and
you keep them all behind you.
same old words.
you never stretch your hands to give them to me.
i say: shreds. what do you think of?
forgive me.
i have never learnt.
i think of the mind.
they go rotten, useless.
i’m sorry.
turn the palm into a treasure chest.
but light makes a sound, right?
you wait so long they become useless.
breathe, you’ll be alright.
to swing, harmonizing the blink of an eye.
i have never learnt, i do my best.
the mind.
you have never listened.
feeling pain, like letting air in.
it doesn’t matter.
i didn’t have to know, see, do.
between myself and i.
to breathe out.
in the absence of friction.

My mind is wasted
well, out of sync
I can't keep up with the thoughts
that would be brought over seas
of consciousness, like weeds of mind
rooted in so deep , they bury themselves
in to the back of my eyes
and I'm always concerned about
running out of time
one thing after another
like some premature adolescent
I scream "why, **** why?"
I'm confident but I'm tired all the time
if you feel the same then don't be shy
I can't give you the answers
I can't sell you the time
but I can suggest a solution;
don't give up, don't die

This isn't about you anymore.

          I'm starting to see a pattern. It's kind of like, staring at the tiled wall in the shower. You want to slip and fall, maybe break your head, but you can't seem to stop looking at the wall. The art.

             The faces and the places on the wall, they talk and breathe, and the more you see, the more you know. And the more you see, the more you want to know, but it all seems to stretch out into nothingness. Everything blurs together, and the more you know, you find you actually know nothing at all.

          That's where I'm coming from, I've always known where I was coming from, but I have never known where I was going. This isn't about you anymore. I've come to realize that my life is a lot like that wall. Winding and endless, like if Satan was a snake and he made a home around my neck. Coiled tight enough to make me see stars in your eyes, but loose enough to make my head pound with pain.

              So it's all about me, and I'm endless. I'm sad and I'm tired, and I have no answers, and I'm all alone. I know that I'll have to keep going, but I also know that I think I'm going to leave you behind. This isn't about you anymore. I'll take my heart back and leave it for someone more special - maybe my dog or my best friend, Carolina.

      I think they'll take better care of it, and I can focus on what really matters: living a life that doesn't involve drowning. Drowning in thoughts, drowning in tears, drowning in possibilities. I think I've had enough of that.

I think I can swim.

I am me and you are not
You are you and they are not
And now you are problematic
Because you made a decision that changes things
Now people can’t make money from your blissful state, your solitude, your happiness
Because now, no one can sell you the life you’re meant to crave
People like us should not exist
But yet, against all odds
here I am
here you are
existing, surviving, thriving
living.

Be honest, he asks me,
Would you gaze at a mirror so much
If it reflected back your
Personality
Instead of your face?*

I had never felt so exposed.

She asks me if I would like to come in now
She asks me to take a seat
She asks me asks me if I would like a glass of water
I rarely turn down free stuff, so I say “okay”.
She asks me about my degree
She asks me about how I’m coping in this cold weather
I’m good at small talk and can drag it out until the real issue is forgotten
She asks me how I’ve been this week
She asks me if I have seen my doctor recently
She asks me to grab a tissue from the box opposite her
Allergies, I promise.
She asks me to begin
She asks me so slow down a bit
So I do
And she sits
And she listens
So I breathe
I breathe again, but deeper this time
I am exposed, but not afraid
I begin.