The trouble with writing original poetry
Is that there are guidelines--
But you have no standards to go by
Except those inside your head.

Sometimes you have no inspiration
And just stare at empty white.
Other times your inspiration
Sounds silly once it's typed.

Once you start to write a poem
Your brain often shuts down
And distractions from the world around you
Keep your creativity blocked.

The trouble with writing original poetry
Is that there are so many variables.
The task that's hard is lining them up
And getting them to play nicely with one another.

The shyness of the night
Laid still by fright
How lonely you must be
To crave that tired eternity
So impervious it is
That impermanence, bliss
Dots of haggard attitude
In place of solemn gratitude
Pray you are sick
For the hound’s wet lick
Will find you, haunt you
Until that emotion blue
Is uttered from your tooth
So rough, this youth
Which seeks beauty
In the light of shame
And vicarious fame
Through the network
Of many a hollow name
Engulfed in shallow flame

The house of commerce commercializes my vignette of nostalgia through various panes. As I am lost to the neon coast of degradation, a forward conquistador berates me for my due impertinence. This migraine doesn’t match my previous excursions, as it is lethargic and fat in deep feeling. My raincoat is a bed that remains a typewriter, that which I reject. I hate it with precision. “This is not an observation, and you are a boisterous fool that rests on the laurels of institution!” But lo’, I am not that impish man! My pen is renewable, unlike my reserves of happiness. If the Quotidian Cycle remains so mundane, then who am I to adhere to the seers of ingenuity? Planets ingest the polygons that compose my mind to the sound of Igor Stravinsky. The definitions of words coalesce into a redundant gestalt, threatening to escape my clammy grasp. Brats and weasels complain of their jeans and fur, soaked in brandy and tar. I live like a dissident; this vagrant is cold to the sickening nods of animals. God, don’t let me remain an anthropomorphic beast. The suffering is daily, the void is lonesome and lays my spine on stone. Melatonin is a pensive friend, a foolhardy palliative to the disease within a footstep. I’ve no footsteps. Not any of note or worth.
Not a single thread to pride myself in. Conversations and dime trades happen around me at generous speeds while I remain a stranger. Christ, I despise my face. I’ve dug my heels into depravity, the exile from woman’s hold is a wrench in my innards. O, to even think is a crime! Who could love the mind deloused, the small and prudent mouse (but little did they know, he facilitates a disease between him and the universe). Intoxicated, my love knows no bounds, but my lust is rendered sterile and sullen. Who can hold me? Who can hold me? Who can hold me? God god god god could hold me. He is not strong, is he? Somebody hold me, now.
Oh, I know yes I need to indulge in the incessant whispers, for my status of a guileless ***** will have to suffice. A cigarette leaps out at my cursed visage, a container of maroon liquid coagulates in mine eyes. There, voices. Cyclic conversations, cyclic conversations, hep! Help! Take me! Take. Take. Take. Me! I belong in the boon, mister fowler. Take me! I don’t hold weight in this world! So take. Sedate me. Please, almighty, nullify me.

Rolling over encumbered waters and their peelings. I am deloused in the sanctum of brazen ladders that were manufactured in a tunnel in Somalia now that tunnel lies, sinking gradually by attoseconds. Africa is connected to Arabia via this passage “and how could I know?” I hear you ask. Well you don’t know, and you never will. But lo’, am I not making your mind nod? Stubborn as you may believe yourself to be, I remain an anvil and you are a blanket. So, there is no better reason to acquiesce. Beneficial, it will remain. So what say you, friend? Shall I continue? Well, here’s the second frame that has materialized within the half second: I’m writing vigorously, beholden to a contrived cosmic thing and erratically, I dream of a mauve *******- I reckon it’s an amphitheatre. The fiery rings of chairs are segregated according to the stature of the ***** that rest their heads on them. Briggyn Losyandr, a fisherman Thraex, assaults me with a Macedonian lance. Its blade is merely a tongue, and an oxidized one at that.
“Begone, man! I’ve got no role to play in your firetruck ambush.”
“Sir, this conflict isn’t for me, but I belong with you.”
The writer is supposed to be disconnected. That’s a constant, you hear? Dig? Up? Soil? Out. Out, now.

what if i was meant for you?
what if you were meant for me?
what if this is it..
what if we're meant to be?

don't be scared
please take my hand
This journey will hurt
but please try to understand

I will always be here for you
I'll give you everything one day
so I'll kiss your head, and promise
That i will love all these what if's away!

Saffron, the pretender
Come to me in debauchery
Let me know not of this
But instead, vain camaraderie
Swiftly down the road
Forgive that violent tenderness
Of brass things
And parsimonious goodness
What teeth, critical states
Yellow signs coalesce
In this blood-drenched hour
I have lost my mind
And the light is dimmer
For this pious sinner
Listen to that gust
Two hundred and one stallions
Criticize my crystal eyes
I, the foreigner
A mistaken warrior
Dandelion child
Riding a ceaseless fountain
Holding a vase so ragged
And a sun so mild

The burning truth of a depth of sva
Ire, ired sire
Your dire dier dyes the dice of my dreadless houha!
Houpla! blah, bam, splash, crash and dive
Pointed target of all the curvatures of highness & strife
Noble trouble doubled and cobbled with the paths of endless lives
And the ultimate sweetness of a hard, endless and unquenchable fire

There's no beginning to Truth & Expression
There's no end to Beauty & Passion
There's only love, Love, LOVE... and Love...
And all the Treasures under, around, before, after, beyond, below and above.

In the well you sat for days-
I only found you, while skipping-
Tripping over moss covered rocks
by the stream that seldom ran dry.

Sadly for you- unlucky you.
The stream sat bare- from the sky.
I’d imagine, dry skin. Twisting turning
Meanders, of dry land.

The water table low, with no flow
You sat stuck for days- Alone.
Lucky for you- weirdly for me-
I heard yells- south of the dry stream.

carefully cranking, bucket and rope-
Down the well- closer to you.
Three yanks, and I pulled up-
A bucket, and heart appeared from the rough.

See a crystal blue stream
Flowing through green trees
And tumbling over mossy stones

See the bright sparkling gleam
And hear the light breeze
Blowing leaves in musical tones

In your mind
Become the stream
Yielding and bending
Rhythm with no ending

Relax and breathe
Let go and flow
You are always giving
Power to all living

This crystal blue stream
Remains a symbol for you
A stream of prosperity
To last your life through