Hollow abysses of anguish, lie deep within a poets eyes

Creativity is a result of torment
Poetry is beauty written by the miserable

How do I feel today?

Not too happy, I imagine.
Not at all sad, I feel.
No anger, no hurt.
Not even nothing.

What should I write today?
No stories or memories.
My thoughts are extinguished.

You can create when you feel nothing
Because of that.
You feel nothing
But you can't create
or express
When you feel nothing.

As I sat
And wallowed
In my good ol' depression puddle
I felt a lingering need
Bubbling up inside me.

Wanting to surface.
Needing to surface.
Inevitably, well, surfaced.

"Create, create!"
Was all it said.
So I created.
The flowing of my pen
unto the paper
Felt like a dream.

And an endless dream
It would become.

And sometimes, all you need is a push.

Traveling through dunes of sand
You'll find in the dusty corners of my mind
There is a door
Behind that door
The Glory of God is no more
The water is gone
And the prayers we pray
Are not heard.
It's wooden and worn
The floorboards leak through my eyes
Through my fingertips, and through my mouth.
Why give this corner such power?
Cause this corner has power over me.
Defining lines and colors
Speaking little things to me
Hoping I go back.