May Her strength be always within me.
Ambiance of Motherly Love is what I need.
Yellow is Her — my joy and my greed.

There comes a time while writing
when it seems there is nothing else to write
the space
the white pixel, faux paper screen
the air around the headspace not thinking
the pulse of the heart in the chest always beating
the room and the chair and the desk and the lamp
all still and silent and awaiting the next song
so they can dance once again
one time only keep the moment full and blooming
or receding or detaching and attaching
and inflating or removing
it’s all the same
the beginning and the ending
and the half-life of the fullness
and overflowing of the emptiness
in all there is and all that there is not

The world is silent but my thoughts are so loud.

My body aches from being forced to be still.

My hair is greasy.

From day to day I fluctuate in everything.

Forcing myself to present an image to others so I can be left in solitude.

I long to run, to be wild, to escape. To push myself until I can’t breathe and my body heaves and I feel more accomplished in a few moments than I have in months.

I want to go to the beach. Lay in the sand, let the waves crash on the shore and soothe my mind and soul.

I want my creativity to come back.

I want to love.

How likes sometimes dicatate me my self worth...
But I'm a rebel and I had enough.
From now on what I like - that counts for me.
That way I'll hopefully learn to be free.

Held by history
confined in walls
where paper,
still.
governs all

'For the safety of us all'
these devices screen
next door,
cracking belts
Children screams

Surrounded by eulogies
Of simpler times
Like death by bullet
Wasn't rhythm and rhyme

Home invasion
Gun persuasion
Stray creation
Retribution

Belt percussion
Slight concussion
Entomb emotions
using potions

Supposed sanctuaries
Sheetrock, iron bone
Dimming lights
Of life weary souls

A pacing procedure
Vital to victor a virus
Raging through
Fervetly quells creativity too

I nurture the creator in you;
the little god that throbs to be master of
words and colors, lines and notes.
I watch you give birth to it.
I see how it squeezes out of
your brain and crawls across
the floor- all ****** and wet.
It's alive and glorious and grotesque.
You're immortal- a giver of life.
I hold it to my face, and breathe in
the smell of rain, pine trees, and desire.
I kiss its fur, and taste the
fires of hell, cardamom, and oysters, raw and sweet.
I feed it a bowl of saffron threads, soaked in milk,
stare into its wild black eyes; I can hear
it hum a tune in B flat minor, and I wonder,
whose seed is this?

I find myself caught in recycling
not cans and paper and glass
but thoughts and actions
habits can help
but being stuck in the habitual
sloshes me into a swamp
dank and stagnant.

What if I broke the cycle in half
opened myself to hidden reaches
of my mental soulful caverns?
Maybe this interruption
would reawaken my muse
from her drowsiness
sparkling and sprinkling me
with poetic stirrings.

It’s worth trying.