I'm a puzzle with no corner pieces-
complicated and frustrating
but breathtaking when finally put
together.
Faded blue jeans, bare feet, and
a mass of wild curls.
Southern accented blunt truths
and sharp accessing eyes
that have forgotten their true color.
Messy scribbled words on heaps
of discarded paper
and gorgeous journals with empty
pages.
I am a piano player in private
and a singer in the shower.
Paint splattered hands
and a girl finding beauty
behind a lens.
A quiet thinker
with a head full of screaming
thoughts.
I am a lovely mess of
contradictions.

Your kiss has shown
me fireworks
even with
eyes
clos
ed

You wish to be alone
as the crowd from a distance smothers you
you look at the smeared marks
and into the cracks
the wall silences everything

mom grabs at your shoulder
making you turn
grasping you close
you feel it is almost absurd

uncle waves, his hair is long
you almost say so
but then the moment is gone
fleeting, screaming, it all moves too fast
when people are around
moments never last
the woodpecker beating at your chest
keeps you breathing all your breath
you know you're stupid
you dont know why you do it
yet you can't help but feel it's claws

scratching on your left
digging deep into your flesh
dripping with apathy
you ***** on catastrophe
a time bomb, nudged into your brain
you almost can't wait
to go insane
ha ha, you know it is true
you want to be alone
but you refuse

e.s.

Never tell a writer that you'll love them forever.
For them, forever isn't a lie. The idea of infinite love isn't a myth.
They have the power to string your love affair with such words that it'd last an eternity.
The fairytales aren't just fables, they serve to represent the existence of magic.
Never question a writer's love for you.. you know why?
It makes us insecure. We get worried that you're not able to find yourself behind every sentence that we write.
For us, you're not just special. You're our wild muse. You spark the creativity within us. And if that's not the biggest compliment, then I don't know what is!
We writers are a complicated cosmo of chaos and dreams. There is a constant urge to write, but there is no muse.
So, Darling please don't burden your pretty little mind.. Your mere existence is the reason as to why we write.

I long to write,
But know not what to speak.
The will takes flight
But the wings of words get trapped in my cheek.

And now I strain
To force effulgent streams to drain
But only muster dull couplets which remain
Too plain.

Jadedness has invaded my brain.
Taken hostage my passion and pleasure,
Stolen my creative treasures.
Now I am traumatized. Will I ever be the same?

I stepped out of my comfort zone,
And appeared in a ship caught in a storm;
I wanted to tell a story through prose, never known,
But my mind froze and searched somewhere warm.

I went to leave the delicate flower of poetry
In which I have found comfort within the lines.
Fields full in bloom with poetic prosperity.
The flow of stream keeping rhythm in time.

I brought my bare feet to observe from rough peaks,
Overlooking the blank page expanded with power.
Preparing to leave on this journey for weeks,
Leaving the comfort of my sweet fields of flower.

Setting doubts aside, I set my pixie soul to sail,
Becoming narrative of chunky, clunky prose.
Daunted and haunted on a foreign ship to prevail,
I heard poetry beckon through bitter winds that arose.

Though I do respect prose, it is not a flow that I know.
It expands endlessly, like the heart of the sea.
My narration is rhythm, and wherever I go,
The flowers of poetry call back to me.

I soon jumped ship to be at peace where I roam,
Among the enchanting patterns of flowering fields.
I listen again to the trickle of the river, I'm home,
Channeling poetic prosperity this pixie wields.

The curtain comes down tonight
To put to bed this sorrowful sight
This play of horrific frights
Had to end, it's only right
For the writer had nothing left to write