I sometimes get hit with writers block
sometimes I can’t please myself with
my own unique creations
I'm my own toughest critic which has led me
to stop writing on several occasions
when the path has been cleared
I'm unable to stop the flow of my creative
thirst; a mouth quenching desire to write
if you were to hand me a glass of words
I'll write all night

I wake in the morning to a singe question:
Can I use your computer?

Immediately, my heart races...
I'm sweating from parts of my body I didn't know existed,
I swallow,
I panic
I answer
Yes, but
But... It is slow...
But... It is small...
But... It is weak...
...I am weak

The 1st question was simple, do I own that device?
The answer, however, is more questions
Is it enough
Are you enough
Why use it when you could use something better?
Why know me, when you could know someone better?

I am the broken lightbulb
That lightbulb designed not quite as bright,
Staring at brighter bulbs and not content to be dim.
Blinded by their light
Unable to notice the beauty of my own.

She always look outside her door
Or stay beside her window pane
She wants to know and see much more
Her neighbor’s deeds and what they gain

She has to meet the rich and poor
She always look outside her door
But that motive of yesterday
Gone with the wind, 'twas blown away

She’s now but an observant one
Who always judge and sneers at man
She always look outside her door
Seems she forgot what is life  for

This poor woman, she never know
That now she looks like a scarecrow
While her feet stands flat on the floor
She always look outside her door.

Sara L Russell, 17/5/14 00:29am*

I speak, therefore I ****.
Complacent in my seat of ancient learning,
  I can and will
undo your fragile notions,
your vapid little dreams;
I'll pierce your ego with a word.
  Your ego is absurd.

I sleep in blameless peace.
Reclining on my cloud of contemplation,
  I can and do
lampoon your trite devotions,
tug on their fraying seams;
I'll take your confidence away
  with everything I say.

You're weaker than I am,
Regurgitated clichés haunt your writing,
  you know it's true
You wear the same emotions;
no common sense redeems
the foolish things you write
- till I slay them with spite.

She always look outside her door
Or stay beside her window pane
She wants to know and see much more
Her neighbor’s deeds and what they gain


She has to meet the rich and poor
She always look outside her door
But that motive of yesterday
Gone with the wind, t’was blown away


She’s now but an observant one
Who always judge and sneers at man
She always look outside her door
Seems she forgot what is life  for


This poor woman, she never know
That now she looks like a scarecrow
Her feet stands flat on the floor
She always look outside her door.

You don't believe the truth
You blame it all on Him
You're hypocrite and fool
Stubborn, unreflective
But when it comes to someone else
Your critic side shows off
Demanding good from wrong
So, who are you to judge?