I sat in this dark room
reloading the empty gun.

I gazed at it, ran my fingers across it,
reached for my target and fired!

But the page remained blank.
I had every intent, but no motive.

Because although I wanted you dead,
I refused to move on.

#Writer’sBlock
*Timelessessence

(The page is torn on the left alignment)

...And then they would place their pistols beneath their chins and pull the trigger. I would see it as some cylindrical spatter of blood escaping from the tops of their heads, like over exaggerated gore from the adult movies. So what would happen next for them exactly? Blackness? No. That is still something. Perhaps just empty. No. Can't be. Empty has potential to be filled, rendering it not quite nothing. I suppose it would be like before you were born. Do you remember it?

Do you ever look back on your old work
And cringe?
Do you see the flowery attempts at depth
And quickly brush the pages away?
Do you feel from reading it the purpose with which you wrote it,
Or are you overwhelmed with 'how silly is sounds'?
The whole point of poetry in sound,
But if we cannot convey our intent in the framework
Do we risk falling into pop poetry?
Or is the framework a cage?
Five beat, seven, five
Accented, Unaccented
A title?
Dear God, only so many can go unnamed
Without driving us mad.

Rip out the pages?
Burn them?
Catharsis for not just a moment,
But days
Weeks
Maybe months.
But not forever.
One day, we will wonder-
Images dance in flashes through our minds
That word we hear
That smell
The way the rain falls through the leaves
Or light glints off leather book covers-
And not remember.
It will flit around our minds
Teasing, torturing
But we will never catch it
Because we will never be who we were.

What do I have on this empty white surface
This wordless page mocks my pen
There is no life, there is no death
There is only... (dot, dot, dot)

Emotionless indifference pulled to the unknown
A course not yet plotted
A map, as yet, undrawn
Precision of thought can't connect the dots
There is only... (dot, dot, dot)

No fear or apprehension
A new world awaits
The first step, a new life
Still, there is an unwritten story
And I am mocked by this empty white page
There is only... (dot, dot, dot)

Stressed, blank inside, hurt,
Broken but breathing,
Here to feel the pain
That's not retreating.
Never felt so dead
And alive at once;
I did not expect
To lose our romance
But here we are on
The same page again,
Just to see the end
From where we first began.

I skim the page
For any sign that
You acknowledged my presence
Atop the rooftop party that day

I skim the page
For the sign that
Everything was marginally magical
Below the ground of our feet that day

I skim the page
For I have seen the sign that
I needed to see.

My world is not of the written word
It cannot be numbered
held captive on a so called page

My world is liquid
as sea , rain , snow or ice
It can be hot , cold , or entice

My world is cloudy
It thunders after it flashes light
My world is wrong , my world is right

There are no words that bind my life
I won't be delegated
to exist in the black on white

I will not be staved
by the limited sways
of the written words upon the page