I try to find the words I want to say,
But they just won't come.
I want the things I feel, to be the things I write.
But the words won't come.

When I write a poem,
The words in my heart must be translated
Into a language
That can be both seen and heard.

But sometimes the translator gets stuck,
In trying to read
My deepest, truest emotions
Amongst the jumble of my thoughts.

And so now I'm stuck
With a plethora of locked-up feelings,
Yearning to be said.
And this is what they call, the writer's block.

The best way to get over an issue,
Is really quite simple in my eyes,
Simply stop viewing it as a problem,
And it becomes a nice surprise.

A death becomes a family day out-
Put the fun back into funeral!
The deceased has probably moved on,
To a place that's far more beautiful.

Your lovers left you? Not to worry,
The memories are here to stay,
And if we're going to honest,
She's probably happier this way.

Can't afford to pay off the mortgage?
Cheer up, silly - let's go camping!
It was just bricks and mortar anyway,
And the place needed revamping.

If you lose your job keep that chin up,
What you have now's a holiday!
Let's be honest - your boss was a ****,
And you won't miss him anyway.

You've got writers block and poetry,
Flows no longer from your pencil?
Me too! That's why I forced these rhymes,
And I show lack of potential!

I'm feelin' inspired today o' alt'days - when George Bailey'st' richest man int'own, but I can't think of out worth writin' so I wrote this.

It was her first frolic,
Raw, non-prolific, she has eyes
On the ceiling, staring at her, her feet,
     Bare, tiptoe with the wind outside, yet
Her brittle body aches, as though
     To embrace the hardest pillow,
A realization, a brand, a scar, a grand
     Turbulence, somewhere
On the inside, the fury
Of a soft rose, it's first opening,
     Too early for the spring, bitter,

          At the applause of one.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Can’t write,

Don’t know why,

Often scary,

When I try.

Our love was a tragedy,
A bridge, a gap, a separation,
A masterpiece, somewhere,
     In Edvard Munch's The Scream
An unknown affair, a farewell
     With very few witnesses.

          Nothing can save us.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Feels like a curse,
Its as irritating as an empty purse
When broke!
Guess its a reminder that the brain needs new stock,
Wish it could come easy,
And the thing is;its never there when occupied or busy,
Its felt when bored and unoccupied,
But hey its a topic worth writing about; guess I've tried.

Let us send mosquitoes into exile,
To the obliterating cold of Antarctica,
     In hope that the stars will take refuge
In this corrupted Archipelago, till then
We shall tire this full moon, lay our lovers down,
And burn the shadows
     As a campfire of our love.*

© 2015 J.S.P.