...I got my writer’s spirit amputated a year back

Doctor Perfectionism said it was a lost cause
Dead weight
Heavy like an anvil resting on my brain
The anvil of the hardy wordsmith I used to be

Nurse Inspiration was the one who removed it
With a scalpel
Sharp like a fox’ teeth plunged in my head
The fox that used to whisper clever plays on words to me

Mortician Motivation buried it deep underground
In a coffin
Shut like the gateway to my mind now is
The gateway that used to unroll a red carpet in front of my feet

For all intents and purposes, it should be gone
I would never write another word
But then what is this feeling?
This itch?
This urge?

Is it phantom pain?

On one hand
It's one of those days
I fail to string a sentence together
But on the other
I'll form a line
And hang this old birthday banner
And celebrate
The day my head is silent

Her pen strayed on the paper.
Not a word to be penned
Her thoughts were blank
as with the paper would blend.

She sat and sat.
She wondered and wondered.
Her heart was trying
but her mind was plundered.

She would attempt for hours
but nothing would come.
Not even a slice,
not even a crumb.

She would eat, think,
and stressfully walk.
She couldn't find a cure
for her writer's block.

A writer in love....
" .............
......................
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Note: for the poem above, ask the lover

A writer
in love
puts all
the effects
of recreational
drugs
to shame
A writer in love
levitates
A writer in love...
Oh God Have Mercy
for pen shall burn on paper

a princess, tired,
built castles, loved by people
and loved a prince
—all birthed from her words

an outcast, fallen,
as her words turn
into robbers of joy and
into daggers against her

a queen, revives,
to ascend the throne once again
pen as sword; heart as shield
written words are her armies
under her rough hands

In an unsynchronous, unscripted, parallel of this world lie the unsuspecting pieces of my game. They are as diverse as they are unique, and equally as unwary. Their roles, even unknown to me, will be played out and unraveled along with the secrets of the universe they occupy. They are unwilling, innocent, and utterly perfect.

I used to make poetry
That would appeal to many.
I was wrong.
Because now I write
As long as I would feel right.

How soon do the words escape your mouth that you realize-
It's far too late to share words that were communicated in a nod three weeks ago,
Or in a passing by kiss last year.
Now they are a hollow shell of everything you wanted to say but somehow feared.
Instead, they were written on your face of faces and spelled out the truth inside of you.
Your words are just words if they are empty and hollow,
Like bones on a corpse-
Unidentifiable.
And when I finally listened to you speak,
I knew we’d never be.
You lack the necessary element that creates me-
Meaning.

I know a writer
She seems like quite the fighter
her arms and legs are covered in scars        
But her eyes are so full of stars

I know a writer
Whose future couldn't be brighter
that always seems so sad
Or maybe just a bit mad

I know a writer
Who couldn’t shoot higher
She always looks up on her strolls
For the sky holds all her goals

I know a writer
Sleepless over her typewriter
She often falls asleep in class
But, she has a smile that could cut glass

I know a writer
Who frequents the overnighter
Sleep to her is a foreign ideal
She knows not how it can heal


I know a writer
Who is quick to tire
An hour or two
It’s ever so true

I know a writer
Who's not an outsider
So full of compassion
She runs with a faction

I know a writer
And she's kinda a whiner
Loud and proud
Much like a storm cloud

I know a writer
She's nothing more than a cipher
With her secret codes
Hidden in all of her odes

I know a writer
Who couldn’t be nicer
Always smiling at strangers
She's a real game changer

I know a writer
Who fights like a tiger
She’s stronger than most
But she isn’t one to boast

I know a writer
Who bites like a viper
She can be malignant
But only if you’re distant

I know a writer
And this may seem minor
But her vivid imagination
leads to the beauty of creation

I know a writer
Who couldn’t be wiser
With a heart for spoken word
Though she’s often left unheard