The blinking cursor
forever fading in and out,
mocking me
for my inability to create.
The words don't come
as they once did.
Blink. Blink.
It's daring me not
to stop typing,
so I don't.
Words flow.
Ideas flow.

Who can tell if any of it
is any good anymore?

finally I can write again
I let the words flow
even though the sentences don't
make sense and the quality is low.
The poems might be
not so perfect,
lovesick & over-dramatic
but I started writing again
and I'm proud.

Midnight in Moscow
The cold and moonlight hit my face
Smiles and welcome
Shouts of cheer
From all over the place.
A glistening and beautifully strong city
Inventive personalties
Hospitably people warm away feelings of gritty.
Beautiful women and the sounds of dance halls
The Kremlin brightly lit
and protected by high red walls.
What a handsome sight to see.
As I took a walk and then a tour.
It was a worthwhile vacation.
An "every day life" detour.

Write about what makes you happy
Write about what makes you sad
Write about everything you think of
Even if it makes you mad
Write about the good times
And write about the bad
Write about the days you were younger
And how it makes you laugh
Write about the things you wanted
Write about the things you had
Write about the the ones you loved
Write about the ones you wish you never had
Then read your book out loud when it’s all said and done
You realize that your life wasn’t that bad
And that someone out there still thinks you’re
Number One

My teeth sink
to the bottom of my tongue
I bite my words cutting them
into halves then quarters
then numerous flecks
of unintelligible nothings
until I finally learn
to dissolve my anger
like a pill fizzing into water
I diffuse, I remain calm,
unchanged by any
Outside interference.
In this subtle way
of no swords drawn
I conquer my enemies
depriving them of reaction.

-t.o.

I believe we all have writers
Who sit around long tables
And write our stories
They carefully pick the characters,
Whose paths cross with ours.
And decide the universes.

They create days of joy
Where nothing could be better
And dark stormy days
Where every breath
Takes extra effort.

I feel like my writers
Have a taste for chaos
I feel like they
Clink their glasses
And toast to my battles
They create adventures
Not for me
But for my readers
So they could chuckle
And burst out laughing

They balance out good and bad,
And I'm thankful
Things could have been worse,
So I'm grateful
If anything, I know,
I've lived an interesting life.

ships wrecked
concepts
disregardable formats and homeostasis
point to where your love lies.
don't tell me i cannot,
i only desire more to crush your expectations beneath the weight of my tap tap tapping keys.
don't tell me i should not,
i will go through my life in silence listening to your meaningless vowels, expressed only in an attempt to stop your head from aching.
hour nine of discontentment:
would you trade your inspiration for a grin?
what do you think of the gasoline and writers block taking form in my dispose?
correct me if i'm wrong but i think i love you.

What is there to write
when the heart knows neither love nor heartbreak?