Mind goes blank as the screen is white,
Text boxes stare yet to be filled with delight,
So many emotions, but no words to describe them,
As hard to grasp as an image in an opaque gem.

I am sickened with such a terrible curse,
And I pray it upon itself reverse.
And I shall write with such ferocity,
That the words will drip with such viscosity,
To attract any bee that might come its way,
And that its followers shan't stray.

For this is what I pray,
Will no longer grant me dismay,
Amen.

Blank pages are instruments gathering dust in cellars of a palace once made of music.
Laughter fell in saturated droplets dripping like tears down still glass windows as the present blended in to memory.
And the laughter and the tears fed the river whose rapids once flooded the landscape of my mind.
Creatures of imagination, products of paper are crumbling. All the dragons turned to dust.
Does inspiration come at will? Or do you will it, thus it comes?
No, it comes like falling snow, gentle petals of crystalline individuality or
In torrents of the ephemeral rage of ages.

We had no snow this year, cold air pregnant with promise.We lived instead on the verge of expectation
with winter not yet born before it died.
Confused creatures braved the cold air
anticipating spring aeons too soon.
But the flowers didn't know and bloomed in sunny colours weighed down low with frost.
They hang their heads and crumble. Crumple. were they paper anyway?

The summer sky can be just as empty.
The land breathing calm under the sun's cautious care.
Its life juxtaposed to an empty mind, the ocean lying still in stagnant, airless dark.
I don't retreat to fantasy when the vibrance lies around me.
But still the music is gone.

And the hallways stand silent in the rain, their ends frayed and faded, their destinations gone.
And hesitant sounds plucked in the emptiness coax out jarring twangs.
The sound is wrong.
Yet the song itches at the back of my mind with infuriating patience
consistence
And so I play away,, the screeches of lifeless instruments echoing,
till my mind is naught but steel wool tangles
snarled
and rough
and angry.

and lurking in the darkness lie the lies that once were truth the memories I fled from, taste of rotting youth. I am looking for a lifeline, for a road to lead me home, because the current is still flowing, though th water looks so still, and the fear inside is growing filling all it finds until...

This page, it still feels empty.
And this poem has no end, because the destination's broken.
Broken pieces fit together, but they cannot make a whole,
so the rain falls on and dust falls slow ,
and I'm standing in the cellar with my pages in a row,
my pen is dripping laughter, but it's falling to the floor,

The ghost of me is leaving
and I can write no more.

I wanted to write down exactly what I felt – to be split open.
But somehow I couldn't be open.
I couldn't cut myself and let myself bleed.
I couldn't remind myself how to cry.
All I had was a blank sheet and a blank mind, to match my blank eyes.

i melt into your words like they're poetry
so here's my attempt to give you what you've given me...
how i see your world from my rose-colored glasses
and see a fairytale, and when i take them off,
i find with you reality is just as sweet;
how i'm always quiet when you speak because
i can't find the words to embellish my thoughts around you
but you can spin silk with the tongue you sing with;
how your smile means miles of metaphors to me
and on days i can't return the favor
you're able to shine though the clouds in me;
and how i feel compelled to tell you everything
even if i can't bring myself to say i love you aloud yet.
i don't deserve your poetry
and you're above mine,
but if you'll take it then that's all that matters to me right now

Gladly, surrendering,
     Stiff and still,
Lying, in this night of nights
Burning so proudly in my being,
     This righteous scald,
A firebird pecking, dismantling,
     Piecing into ecstasies and art
My cold, cold heart,
For you are here, near, tickling
Caressing    
     My unassuming hip...

          ...with your eyebrows.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

i’m searching for words that do not exist
grasping for something in the matterless air
they call it writer’s block
but i feel much more disconnected than blocked
as if overnight someone had unplugged
all the cords to my creativity
my mind feels dim and dissolved
a damp empty space
having no mass but seeping into my heart
the nothingness fills me up
and i stare hopelessly
at the blank page in front of me

I kiss you, and so, therefore, my self.
I kiss my forehead when I kiss you,
And free the butterflies up
From a bottle of a dream, that is a poem
Of love, when I kiss you,
If and when I kiss you, and in the process
To let you kiss yourself,
From kissing me tender for so long, for so sweet,
From the upper and the lower lip, from the upper
To the lower chest of mine, then yours,
Just to propagate them
As the secret kisses on your thighs, perfumed,
And do what our mouth does to the summer fruits,
While I kiss you to surrendering
Of self, of glory,
Of pride.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Without a coin,
Without even wishing,
The wealth of this well
Has been thrown back at me.
     Me.

          Because you love me.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Just like people,
A book without a spine
Are just sheets,
Just...sheets.

     Just like people...*

© 2015 J.S.P.

I sail behind your tears, beyond your soul,
Believing there is love in there, somewhere,
Deep, and silent, in a sea...

          ...of sunken hearts.*

© 2015 J.S.P.