There are voices inside my head. And for the first time
I realize, they weren't those demons I have believed.
Rather, it was mine. It was me, the whole time.

Prejudices and judgments
I have tattooed by myself,
on myself.
They sting like a thousand needles
puncturing through every bubble of idea
my mind blows.

They imprisoned me.

I have done this with myself.

Sometimes
The words pour out
A beautiful symphony
Letters entwine my skull
Choke me with their simple
Elegance
Some see it as writing
I see it as
A beautiful death
A necessary one.

But other times
The emptiness is what
Overwhelms me
The profound absence
Of ink on paper
The maddening sensation
Of paralysis
Grips me
As my gentle fingers
Shake
Helpless and
Longing.

I sit down to write a poem,
actually write, not type.
Because pencil against paper is
satisfying. It's warm, not cold,
not like keys on a laptop, or worse
a touch screen, that's not touch.
Because I want to feel,
everything, but I haven't yet.
I sit down to write a poem,
I got nothing.

I don't know what to write,
because my mind is white.
A walk would be in order,
to get thoughts out of disorder.
As I'm trekking through the forest,
I get an idea! A florist
who goes to Vegas
and...encounters writer's block.

What do you do
When writing becomes a coping mechanism,
But you can't put your feelings into words?

How do you write when there's nothing to write about?
When there are so many things to say,
And so many things to think,
But you just can't put it into words.

Writer's block is like an enemy.
The inability to phrase your emotions,
Or describe the citrus-y, vibrant taste of the orange you're eating.
The inability to write about your day,
Or express your concerns through the beauty of words.

How am I supposed to cope,
When this block is in my way?
How am I supposed to cope,
And get through every day?

just another poem
describing my low mood
with an irreverent metaphor
comparing my low mood to
the drastic change of temperature
in summer and winter