I sit
Behind a blank screen
Thoughts
S     c a   tt e    r  e       d
Like dandelion seeds in the wind
A swirling mess of fluffy white
I can’t help but think they look beautiful
What a gift it would be to share this beauty!
But I can’t catch them
They s
            l
             i
              p
Right through my fingers
Laughing and dancing around me
While the white screen
And the blinking text cursor mock me…
Angry bees buzz in my mind,
Itchy and hot
    um
  j        p,
I             and swipe
Trying to grab anything, ANYTHING!
But I fail to fly with them
Harsh hands only chasing away the seeds
Like parting water

I stop
Hope d r a i n i n g out of my body
I’ve broken and spring a leak
Condemned to the ground
I can’t do this anymore

The sun sets
And the dusts settles
I sit among among the dandelions drifting down
Wait, what?
Oh…
I can finally hold them

Here comes another
classic case of
writer's block.
**** soft,
I spew
across the
white pages.
Maybe age is
catching up
with me.
Time has been
a friend,
but I'm only as
good as my last poem.
I long for the days
when songs filled
my heart, where every
part of me smelled
the rain and the
wet dogs, and the
streets of Spain.
The pain was always
fodder, the joy, the sadness
the madness of love and
*** and passion.
The rancid anger and rage
became the words of
a sage when I broke
out the notebook.

Not tonight, though,
I will wait for the
******* and the blood
to simmer in
the red dot on the
white snow.
Patiently waiting for
the hemorrhaging of
the soul.

I sit at my chair
For hours on end
Staring at the blank paper

The story is at the tips of my fingers
The characters chatter in my mind, ready to take the stage
But to my horror

My words are gone and only the silence remains

My mind is calm,
Empty,
But not in the way I cherish.
The whiteout is blank,
Motionless,
The water on a still lake.
I long for the storms,
Rivers,
Rainfalls of inspirations.
Instead,
All I get,
Is c a l m

God forbidden dimwitted idiot
oddly created in his image
as if he could ever pity or give a ****
about every illegitimate kid of his;
no wisdom hidden in riddles,
just my own illiterate scribbling
littered with inner criticisms.

Sometimes,
When I am with my demons or angels,
and drowning alone in silence,
I find solace in my inauspicious life.

Sometimes,
Solitude is the only place
where I can remain contemplative,
as thoughts freely flow within my mind.

Sometimes,
There is beauty in quiet introspection,
my unvoiced passions are never denied,
but must I remain unloved, as time slowly slips by?

Is my mind merely irresolute?
Torn into pieces by ambivalent thought,
at war with itself, until reason intervenes...

and then I begin to write.

©️Lizzie Bevis

A blank page blinks
Begging words to appear
I can't seem to think
Months lapse into years

Shake the ink from the pen
Alchemy art from grieving
Change a loss to a win
Turn that mill for demons

Crank out another liter
'Til the pump's run dry
Claw up one last meter
Over that ****'s the sky