Do you remember me,
I ask.
You refute
And call my name
Again and yet again.

I answer every call,
engaged it says,
rings a bell, somewhere far
where my voice
isn't familiar anymore.

I knock on the door
No ones home, you say
I wonder why
In an abandoned wreck
Do you wish to stay.

As I try to remember
the pass code to you
I see
the door's open
Locks broken
And still i can't reach you.

I enter
to see you chained
by your own hands
I reach out
Only to find
you lost.

I try to unchain you
but the touch of me
makes you flinch
more than the chains do.

If I was certain of anything
it was that I'm me.
If you were certain of anything
it was that I'm not.

I know you'll come back,
You always do.
Till then, I'll stand beside the door
calling for myself too.

Calliope
has spied in me
a hollow dark and cold.

She gives it free,
that panoply
of new ideas bold.

But as of late
that dinner plate
of musings has been bare.

Could it be
Calliope
Has little left to spare?

© Jason Comeaux 4/12/2019

My pen sputters and stalls -
Check engine light flashing
Behind my eyelids

Scribbled notes, a word, here and there,
thoughts jotted down before they’re lost,
journals filled with rhymes from thin air,
failed metaphors erased and tossed.

Crumpled paper piled in my head,
stories that should not be written,
poems penned never to be said,
a single word had me smitten.

A phrase I think might become more,
a tiny twinge might be a seed,
a style I’ve never used before,
an allusion that might succeed.

Images that need description,
seeing a fraction of a whole,
each of these an apt depiction
of chaos in a writer’s soul.

My mind is constantly fighting
To convince me
That I do not like writing as much as I thought I did
I still write because it's what I have been doing for some time now
Even if it doesn't make sense to me now or ever
I still do it
Because I lack purpose
And I don't know what makes me happy
So I write fighting my mind
constantly giving up and then resorting
To pen down what I don't feel in a moment
People tell me that I can write
And then I tell them it makes me happy
But the truth is it makes me less miserable sometimes
A feeling of puking out my acidic thoughts on the table
That are underlined with fear of these people
I try not to care about my mind or the overactive people in it
And I blot words like I have a lot of time and money...
Someday, I'll stop because words come to those who seek it not survive on it.

I'm a writer,

But what if I tell you that I'm losing my identity? It's been a few months and I feel that I'm slowly losing my ability to write.
I always considered myself a poet. But now, I feel like a dictionary with thousands of blank pages. With no definition and no sense of reason.
And I'm scared.
How will you ever love me now?
You fell in love with me because of my words, didn't you?
They always stirred some sort of emotion within you. Something that you tried so hard to hide. But whenever you read the poems that I wrote, your armor cracked.
What if I tell you that writing had slowly turned into a burden? Baggage that has now become too heavy for me to carry all alone. I realized a while back, how I pushed myself to write just to connect with you. To let you know how I'm suffering. I expressed all my agony through those words. I wrote about how, all those words, that had once been a blessing now seem like punishment.
You called that mad rambling of words, 'Beautiful.' You were too blind to see how this pain was consuming me. So, once again I forced myself to down the poison that you thought, tasted like an age-old wine.

Darlin, the words have abandoned me, and now so did you.