i have experienced writer’s block before,
but not like this...
not when i’ve forgotten the meaning of every word that comes to mind,
every word except one: you

you are by far the worst thing that has happened to my poetry
because, before, i could write about my sadness,
about how the world was closing in on me,
but you stood in the way of that
almost as if you were saying 'no, darling, let me show you something new.'
so you showed me the world in a new light,
and suddenly it felt so big i did not know how to deal with it;
could not find the words to describe what i was feeling,
could not find the words.

in the weeks that we have been together,
my sadness became dormant.
sometimes,
sometimes it still erupts out of me;
the hot lava of my tears washing away any hope i had had left.
but even in those moments
you have been there,
there for the repercussion,
for the mending,
there for me.

Now all i can write about is you, you are the only thing that makes sense in my lines,
like, you belong there, you were made to be my inspiration.
around you, my verses and phrases dance, tangle themselves in your eyelashes,
curl themselves around your legs
a beautiful revelation of purpose.
until it doesn’t make sense anymore
and then i am stuck again
stuck in the spaces between the words that adore you so
but to them, i am a prisoner, forbidden from venturing out into the world of rhyme schemes and verses

this is what has been happening to me since you’ve left

and let me tell you,
the day you left i was
preparing myself for a novel
filled with wit and conversation
and joy
but now i can hardly find a single line
that doesn’t call out your name

*how could i ever forget about the way you hurt me
if you are all my writing remembers?

So, you want to write a poem.
Dear, dear writer, don't you know?
I come on my own time.
Prepare me a space
with white linen and
scarlet red roses.
Sweet talk me pretty,
or you'll be the one
up all night pacing,
pining for your poetry.
So love, you expect the best--
Well, I give when I’m ready.

                 Yours truly,

                  Poetry

All day I've licked the taste of you
from in between my words,
but it's clinging to the spaces
and making slick the verbs.
I've ****** clean a few adjectives,
polished a few nouns-
but I just can't get my tongue around
those tricky little Os.

I have a few words
but they are brittle, easily fragmented.
Not pretty in their frailty- just broken.

The word I can’t find is gagging my pen
Gates slam shut when I knock on the door
The thunder clouds rumble and crash while
The sea nears it’s ebb and the seagulls all land
To scratch in the sand for what I have lost
Intellectual handcuffs chafe but hold firmly
To the cast-iron pipes of yesterday’s genius.
My pencil has a broken lead; the poison seeps
Into the veins that hold my life together.
Fist pounding breaks the thinner ice along the edge
But the navigation channel remains frozen
And thoughts ice skate away to music I can’t hear.
Like a hungry bird chick in a broken nest
Chirping with an open mouth for sustenance
From Mama lying dead below among the leaves.
I know the meal will not appear.
                           ljm

P  erhaps it’s time to scribble down a word or two,
E  ven though I have nothing cogent to proclaim.
N  evertheless the urge is one that must be answered to.

O  nce a long, long time ago the words poured forth, but
N  ow the well has seemingly gone dark and dry.

P  ossibly the act of touching pen to empty pages-
A  s an act of penance for strangling the muse of
P  oesy in a knotted, convoluted scarf of dreariness- will
E  nable what was meaningful so long ago to finally
R  ecover and deliver something worthwhile once again.
                                                          ­  ljm

I'm a little traumatized for not being able to write for so long.
Am I somewhere between writers block or I don't know what to write?

I'm a little bit traumatized, well not a little bit but a whole lot bit.

My passion stays burning but where's my need for writing?