What am I to write about
At this time, I could only think about
Nothing more and nothing less
About you who fill me with zest

You don't find writing,
Writing finds you.

and for a second i remembered why i fell in love with you all those years ago
it wasn’t just the laugh or the way your eyes lingered for a half a second too long but the way you made me feel in your presence,
like there was nothing else in the world that could draw your attention from my words.
but then i remembered, the temper, the walls, the vast insecurities that strangled you at night, and i remembered why i moved on,
you could never love me the way you loved being lost and i knew
i could never find you.

I write what I want
When I feel like it.
It’s not planned at all
It just happens.

The words seem to flow;
They surround me.
Yet sometimes I can’t
Write at all.

Why should I write?
Many reasons present themselves.

To not end my life,
Prove that I’m not good,
Release of emotion
To refrain from bleeding

But now,

I write to love
And show this love
To that unwatching eye.

Why do you write?
Is it an outlet?
A message?
Or is it for attention?

Me?
I write to write.
To share and to show.

my muse teases me
with the faintest of smiles
then is gone
unrequited love
leaving a sweet taste
of what could
if only be

torturing my mind with ideas
fantasies
when put on paper
turn to epitaphs
where another train of thought
has died

I have to coax
bring out of the shadows
the beauty she has
for me
that I may write enlightened
set free