I keep on turning
and skipping pages,
blank as they may be

Reckless enough to
lose them in the way,
still continuing

Life had given me
another book to
be written upon

And yet here I am:
starting and stopping
on a blank canvas

* *

i pray for silence.
a quiet moment from the storm.
my mind possesed by unwritten lines
burdened by the weight of life.

i am unable to feel
beyond the thunder and trashing
of my own mind.

slowly losing myself.
chaos breeding inside my head
of words that are slowly dying.

my battle has always been
between overwhelming thoughts
accompanied by poems,
versus... not feeling anything at all
with pages left blank.
i prefer either the scorching passion
or the cold numbness.

this is much worse!
with each thought not articulated,
i'm missing pieces of myself;
which i can only find
in the calmness of writing.

I am only a shell near your ocean, helpless to your pull,
Wave after wave tumbling across my seeking heart.

I am the author of stories unwritten.

Of memories forgotten, and love birds smitten.

A lonely puppet on ethereal string,

but beware the lessons my stories bring.



For each story that you devour,

I'll take not seconds, minutes, or hours.

For each lesson learned, two more are lost.

Prime entertainment, this is the cost.



So be wary of words, as sweet as the sky.

For the faster you read, the quicker you die.

I understand now when they say he spoke with a silver tongue. His words flowed from his lips like beads of mercury, mesmerizingly beautiful, but toxic nonetheless.

I turned to him and asked "why?" As the record droned on in the background. He opened his eyes and smiled as the tapping of his feet slowed.

"In our final moments there is silence. I fear that final silence." The song began to reach its crescendo and he held out his hands as if he were embracing every note. "So let there always be music."

...And I reached out, like the hands of a clock, uselessly grasping at time; and like a clock, all I could do was tell of it's passing.

And I knew in that moment, you were to me as the moon to the wolf: infinite in beauty, but impossibly far. And for this I cry.

Pick up your weapon! Grab the pen.this one can't go unwritten, should I say it again?