I live in a world all my own
inside my head
through fantasy, I roam.

One of magic, heroes, and might.
One of darkness, clouds, and endless flight.

I could lay in bed and dream my life away
no wish or want for the reality of the day.

Realism pushes through my blinds at sunrise,
reminding me I need to wake,
and live my dull, mortal life.

I depart from my dreams with trembling breath, goodbye.

Until I return to dance with my thoughts at night.

All it took was a song
filled with truth
and emotion so raw.
The key buried so deep in the sand,
it was long gone.
The chamber or her heart
that held all these words
locked away in a prison.
No visitors allowed.
Not even the warden can hear
   the screams of the poetry needing a
   pen to meet paper
so that all she is needing to hear
   herself say can be displayed
and the chains finally sawed away
with every haiku and verse.
The words to a song
filled with the meaning muffled
   by her own doubt,
found the lost treasure
   that opened the jailed poets cell.
Forevermore,
writing ink to scroll,
blood to sleeve,
tear to cheek.

I'm just going to start writing because
it's been so ****  long.
It's January and 70 degrees,
which is strangely beautiful,
something to which I can relate.

I wonder whether you can consider yourself
writer's blocked
if you haven't even tried to tumble the blocks over.

I'm not really sure why I stopped writing
or when exactly.
Maybe it's because I fell in love and found happiness.
Or maybe it's because I didn't want to
write out admissions that a perfect relationship doesn't exist.
Or, better yet, that even at my happiest,
my most in love,
there's still so much untouched darkness within me,
darkness that writing pretty words can't even make pretty
in the melancholic sort of way.

Maybe I haven't wanted to write because it's painful.
I can fake the lightness when I bury
myself
in  the world around me.
Saving problems for everyone else keeps me
from having to admit my own.

Maybe I've been blocking myself
from myself,
like if I go too deep,
peel enough back,
I may not like what I see.
Maybe I'll realize
I've been the one to blame all along.

If I write,
if words spill onto crisp white pages,
if ink bleeds from the tips of weathered hotel room pens,
if I release thoughts and feelings frozen
beneath strategically built, icy castles,
if I let go,
I may burst open too wide
and feel too much
and relive it all.

Even my newer, shinier,
stronger self
might not withstand
the force of that.

Perhaps I'll open the gate
and pray the reinforcements hold.

Poetry is heavy as lead
in my mouth.

Tree branches find more grace
in a wind that’s ragged.

My mind’s a canvas, it is blank.
With words, my heart sank.
My mind is full of thoughts.
My desk is full of shots.

I made a poem book for you.
But the words won’t come through.
So alas, it is still a blank.
Empty like the shots I just drank.

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