Wandering words, evasive prose
Removed from my clutching mind
Incredulous laugh, they dodge and hide
Tiptoeing through my daily grind
Enters but briefly an image so clear
Rippling through my hungry thoughts
'twixt eager fingers awaits my pen
Shamelessly nebulous, I follow the dots

Bumbling through, I falter and fall
Lying face down in a pool of nouns
Organising verse to paint image ablur
Clumsily in finished verse I drown
Kindling gone, die these embers of rhyme...
...for prose to revisit, I await my time.

There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block

I DO NOT HAVE WRITERS BLOCK,
I have a pain that rips through each pore of my trembling body, so incredulously devistating my cries sound more like the wretched howl of an injured animal than anything resembling a human being.
I DO NOT HAVE WRITERS BLOCK
I have words that are unable to hold the weight of my emotion, so this undeniable agony comes out sounding as easy as a Sunday sleep in.

seeing places you’ve been on t.v.
do not hold the same memories
ringing doorbells for people who are not there,
the ones with spiders in their hair.
the strange man’s lips are coming too close
you should have just stayed home.
your lips dissolve into foam
quietly disappearing
until theres nothing left to touch
quiet stillness, darkness not much
left of you or left of me.
your hands are reaching out
but you can’t see
what’s in front of you-
it is not me.
quiet stillness darkness you are not free
he is pushing you against the wall
eyes wide open
dare not to close them at all
baby, that is not how we do it here.
that is not how we do it here.
keep your eyes on me
and you won’t disappear
face lit by a dim light
writing poems to stay alive
or maybe to know a piece of you will stay.
even the nights the demons are away
and you are lying softly
alone
even the universe is still
and absent
rising and falling.
like the heart in your chest,
Do not let the parasites crawl into it
to shrink your heart until it is nothing
but flesh-
Better to keep quiet alone, in stillness and darkness-
it was easier to not move
when his hand rested on your head.
easier to be alone when you imagine yourself dead
there’s voices inside the walls
you’ve heard them all
before smooth and calming
but now they sound
violent and angry
you have had your passions written down and thrown away
thats why now you have no idea what to say
quiet stillness darkness
tranquil serene silence
dead flowers on the side of the road
blood coming out of your nose
death waits for you
like a hand on a clock
the voices are getting louder
can’t you see?
it’s time to cut yourself loose,
after all,
you said you wanted to be
free.

The grand turbulence, the fury
Of the flower's first opening,
     The song of spring
At the tips of the leaves,
     Dripping the delicious
With the buzz and the sting.
The nectar-lady, the juice
That she brings, and
     The chaos of a thirst
     In the mouth, with a burst,
          Scrumptious, satisfying.*

© 2016 J.S.P.

I've got a block. It belongs to somebody named Writer.
I'm not getting too far in this life I'm living, either.
My head is swarming, but my pencil is dull.
I guess this **** will have to stay in my skull.
I'm not a kid, but I don't think I'm a grown up.
All of my life, I feel I've let myself be shown up.
I've got it in me. But I guess I've got some demons.
Any shine that I have, they dull it out, "yeah Syn, keep dreamin."
I face my fears, but they always seem to stay with me.
They've been my longest companions, sad reality.
There's a spectrum inside me, but I touch both ends.
I try to live my life as both, but they just cannot blend.
I wanna Rest. And if I'm lucky it'll be In Peace.
But God said to me "Syn, you're not much help deceased."
I met Kurt Cobain. Told him the feeling's mutual.
To finally mute the thoughts I know unmutable.