Rain drops dropping on your dry soul
Wet hands now clap of laughter
Low in self-steem now flying higher
Weak in imagination
scared to see a future without her
She is deeper than the ocean floor
You shallow as a river filled with rocks
Emotions fueld by your insecurities
Now you are scared to be
who you are supposed to be
Stagnate in progression so you regress
Take a million steps backwards
Scared to move forward
Fearing the future
lacking the idea of growth
That one knee will never see the floor
Because you can't see a future with her
But you hold on to her like ransome
While her next one is dying to find her
Leave her be so she can be
free to find her one true love
Her next one

Inspiration, like a trickle
beginning at the skin,
moves hot beneath the surface
to flood the veins within.

The page is blank before me.
Pen lifeless as a board
until I pick it up again
and fill the page with words.

Ink gushing over paper,
pen and poet become one.
Veins burning with a purpose
with the heat of every sun.

And all the clocks hang silent,
and all the planets do align
when I raise the poem to the light
and read what's only mine.

First, ink and tree leaves
      Fresh or processed, it works nonetheless
seek a tranquil abode
      And allow creativity to flow through throbbing veins
lock the doors, close your eyes,
      Trap yourself in your consciousness
no escape for the wicked and divine
      Allow the fear of yourself to boil,
the image of her that burns behind your eyes to scald you,
      And the anticipatory chills to soak your entire body.
let them twirl and collide
      Car collisions, fists against walls
face these lost horrors living in the depths of your mind
      Tickle the subconscious,
drifting enough to dream,
      But awake enough to feel the lightening of this storm.
tease and ****** it until it claws for an escape
      Poke and ****, burn it to squirm
the perfect result will be worth the torture.
      Then, at the peak of destruction
when it’s nearing death and combustion
      Release it onto the whiteness of the page
tarnishing it, impure.

The ghosts come back to haunt her,
Their shadows lurking over the ancient escritoire,
Quill in hand, paper a blank canvas,
Wondering if the poets of the past would praise her
Or look on her in scorn,
Will her own words be a wordsmith's dream?
Will she live a travesty and be idolized in death?
She buzzes with unease,
Feeling the fierce grip of inspiration overcome her,
Succumbing her to its essence before it vanishes,
And in her isolation, the words dance,
Sometimes in harmony, sometimes in battle.

Water fills the cup.     If it is too strong,
its flow will either      break it or bounce back.

I thought I was over you.

I've been through all the stages.

And yet here you are, still in my mind.

Another process.

Of accepting that I'll never get over you.

They say artists
are tortured
Conceptually
Figuratively
Also literally
Some create through chaos
Out of seeds of destruction comes
a harsh beauty born of the artisans
experience of the world
Some express through their tears
their captivity, and from this
brutality again comes beauty
Joy
Ecstasy
emotive threads bind us
Loss  
Sorrow
it's soft ether numbing us
Driving us to tears
To apathy or
to death
Or to Art
As a means to fight for
something beautiful
A means to resist the cut of the knife
As a means to make
Something that would make her smile
Capture that glow
Make him bite his lip
to hold back tears
Make us see beyond our limited realities
And fears
Make me whole again
With stanzas, Indian ink staining our fingers
With stitches, tapestries of lives long past
With music, that can transport us to the depths of depression
As elevate us to the strata above in one refrain
With paint stained brushes
With spray on trains
Art as protest
Artists are amongst the first in those
waves of repression
cultural victims, with science
following at its heels
Persecution ******* their steps
The possibility of losing your life
for the creative output
.. and many have
let's not forget
So art is born of pain, perhaps
and some from joy as quickly
as from fear
Regardless of its origin
You know when you find that spark
You understand intrinsically
That light as brain and heart ignite
And you breathe catches, ragged, rhythmically
In your mind, alive
Exist in perfect time with appreciation
In this space for here lives Art
Be touched by the pain or joy
Sorrow or longing
Be embraced by flow
of words and style
My chest tightens
and eyes mist
This is the artists tortured soul on display
They placed it there
for me
So all could see
what was laid bare