Why is it
That inspiration hits
at all the wrong times?

Wandering the woods,
no pen in sight,
and suddenly the greatest idea dawns on me.
Distracts from the nature and beauty around
as I repeat it again and again
in the hopes that it will be etched into my mind.

I rush to the place
where I can write it all down
where it can be remembered forever
But when I arrive
It is gone without a trace.

At night, when all is dark,
when silence is the key to survival,
it slinks into bedrooms
and curls up in tired minds.

Keeps me awake for hours,
only to disappear at the first sign of light
leaving me alone again.

And yet, I'll stare at a paper
For days, years, decades
And ideas evade me.
My mind is blank
as the sheet in front of me.

And nothing comes to mind.

It doesn't feel like pain anymore, it just feels so tense
Words, ideas, they're all aching my head
And I try to hide it with radium and noise
But nothing is to loud for the voices that destroy
So many thoughts have me crying till I scream
Enabling my mind to be nothing like me
I try to run away from the voices within
But even when I dream the demons still break in

Unpredictable and often occasional
there are abrupt, viscous spells -

      asphyxiating, grim, austere -

when you incompetently beseech

rather
ineptly squeeze

the unmoored mind -

     vagrant, erratic, blind -

to somehow concoct a reasonable rhyme
in which you could artfully arrange -

     this-a-way-that-a-way -

unwarranted, disfigured, discolored

bunch of rogue thoughts.

But the mental friction does not sanction
the end to this sluggish, incongruous trend.

Towards the end, some patchy amends are all you can dispense

to a taunting and tipsy

blob

of trivial poetry.

my tongue feels heavy,
like to write is to drag one heavy damp
rag across a desk that's getting dusty

do I still make sense
because it surely doesn't make sense
to use a wet rag before you use a duster

I've lost my artistic touch
and I've never felt so lost

As in villages as in big cities,
As in classrooms as in societies,
I'm alone with my strange personalities.


The eyes, the smiles, the frowns, the clowns,
The hardships and their ups and downs
Have no affect on my daily rounds.


Even the precious words are empty,
No mean defences, no more acting gently;
No more need to fake my misery intelligently.

Bring the buried flower,
Bring the burned out candle.
Bring the closed notebook,
Bring the ended hour.
Dig up the flower,
Strike the match,
Open the notebook,
Begin a new hour.
Bring the writing you’re afraid of
And regenerate it, and
Make it speak.
Scatter your poems left and right,
Because the world can’t wait to hear
Your words.

I think I’m having writer’s block.
All it seems I can do is sit
And watch as the clock
Each second passing,
The ticking of the hands seems to whisper,
Telling me something I already know.
Your brain is slow,
You’re waisting time.
Just think of something,
A single rhyme
That like a blossom in the spring
Will bloom into a flower.
I try to search inside my head
But much like a fly in a spider’s web
My thoughts are trapped
Nowhere they can go.
Or a dam of ideas about to over flow,
Just needing one more to break the gates.
But alas, here I sit
Staring at the clock,
Trying to think of something
That will break my writer’s block.

These days I dredge the past
                 for the kind of  pain
                      that used to drive
                        my words. Heartache
                 was the fuel of poetry
            and I drove those lines
                                  like a madman.
But, now that tank runs dry,
          which, I guess, is a good
                                  thing really.