There's a blockage in my creativity pipe.
There's some potential I haven't tapped into yet,
I read old pieces and wonder
where is that inspiration?
I'd hate to think it's because I'm over the fact you left.
Why am I only able to create when my heart
doesn't function how it should?
The words are falling out of my head
I wish they would fall onto the page.
I used to be all the 3 "I's" in imagination
Originality ran through my blood
I could mold my pain into something so delicate.
I touched people's soul with a simple sentence.
And now I can't even create something I'm mildly okay with.
There's no endearment to kiss on letters.
Nothing to set my eyes on.
I guess alterations had to be made.
There's a blockage somewhere inside of me.
A change is coming.
This is more than a simple poem.
When you feel this lost, you are bound to find
what your soul is searching for.

Poets write with crooked lines
Lines that zig and zag
Lines that duck and dive

Poets write with messy lines
Lines that weave and wave
Lines that come alive

Poets write with spiral lines
Lines that gain speed
Lines that fall and rise

Poets write with broken lines
Lines that leap chasms
Lines that launch and fly

Poets write with solid lines
Lines that embody
Lines that embed
Hope

i have this sinking feeling that i will never write again.

that all of the hurt
that i used to infuse into poems
has run dry.

i let the blood sit in my body,
simmer around my bones,
force myself to bottle
the trauma until it burned.

each time i wrote i rationed
out a little of the overflowing pain,
let it trickle,
and drip onto page.

but all at once i poured
crimson so now poems
exist - flooded red.

poems, whose words were so
deeply engraved in my soul
that nothing exists there now.

because they are living,
outside of me.

there is no life to feed the art.

just this emptiness.

and it should be freeing,
the purging of all this pain.

but it's not,
because i can not write
with any form of brilliance,
now that this thing has been
written out of me.

(should i have held onto the pain,
sacrificed living,
just to give art?)

Fate slips
As a fallen horse's
  hoof
To prove there
Is a yonder, unwritten
Which we can not
   write
With our fingerless hands
Stumbling through life
Gripping guideless
    reigns
Tripping over a wish
Never to be ours
Fate did never
     find

How sorry I am
That's the title of the
Book I will write.
If I say,
I may write,
Where does my sorry go?

I try to avoid clichés, such as the word ‘someday,’ but I can’t deny the hope it carries. It’s beautiful and promising, like the first light of day. Seven simple letters that hold the weight of my dreams.

Someday, I’ll write about cool winds and peaceful rain, about afternoons spent wandering through gardens. I’ll describe the grass beneath my feet, as though it thanks me for walking this earth. I’ll write of vast cities, where new streets hum with life, new places I’ve visited, and those yet to come.

Someday, I will only wait for sunrises and sunsets. I’ll leave the sciences behind in favor of what nourishes the soul. I’ll indulge in simple joys, like flipping through recipe books and learning the art of crafting the perfect soup.

Someday, my writing will shift. It will be less about others and more about me—how I am loved, how I am loved well, and how those I love are lucky to have me. I’ll be hidden, only found by those who seek me in my absence, who know that I’ve always left the door open. At the dining table, I’ll sit with friends who stayed, who made me stay, and who never took me for granted.

Someday, I’ll spend more time analyzing constellations, and less on pondering why relationships fail. I’ll always have the right words to say, no hesitation, no delay. Someday, my writing will be simple and clear, no ironies, no hidden metaphors.
Short, and sweet;
No traces of past pains, or of having dealt with goodbyes.

But someday is still a distant thought. For now, I let the ink bleed a little longer. I let the pen spell words like grief and loss.