I can't form words to match
what my mind feels

Give me your inspiration.
Come on, you have enough already.
This isn’t fair, I protest;
how is it that you can create
a dozen pretty iced-cupcake poems
a day and I can’t?

Honestly –
sharing is caring.
I don’t want it all,
just a little bit.
A tenth will suffice.
It won’t take much from you,
I swear! you’ll still be writing
ten-point-eight cupcakes
a day.
Now would that be so bad?

No? Well, then.
Be like that.
It’s not like
I need inspiration …

I grow weary of crafting words that are spun together
feeling as if there is a beauty spurting from my pain
because the words are still marching from your wellspring
and they're saturated in your sticky intoxication
It forces me to taste the sour fact that
the fire you set to my life still burns
and decimates ties strewn out of feeble love attempts
No matter the count of the condemnations of our life
you still dwell inside of my every word
and all of my metaphors
My vocabulary is limited to you and
you drag me below the pool of new words waiting on the surface
So I rewrite the same sentiments that play between
self loathing
heartbreak
and love

Write where you want me.

White pages stare back
mockingly, as night,
surrounds me.
I should sleep,
let the somber room,
take over for just a minute.
With the pen in my hand,
I struggle to think of words
that express, words
that become an extension
of who I am.
That pen once fit the mold
of my hand, now
lays limp as torture of a fallen
idea pushes down upon it.
Somehow I have become liquid
letting white blank pages,
soak up my words.
My mind,
my being
thoughts,
they are all,
no longer a part of me.
So words, pour onto the page
like an a storm unwilling to stop for anything.
These words now crash more violently than
thunder and they cease to end.
These very words, now stare back on once
blank pages. Words that share my resentment
words, that stand alone, as the pen
drops as does my hand.
I have never been so at rest.

Writer's block......****!!!
I hate it when I'm stuck
I'm constantly in a fight
with the words I'm attempting to write
it's hard to explain
the words are all there in my brain
it sounds great inside my head
but on my paper still nothing is said
I'm in a war with what I've wrote
&  it's far from legible, even worse than a doctors note
Wasted ink & crossed out lines clutter my pages
& I'm only in the beginning stages
all my writing looks like this until it's done
Sloppy is way more fun
neatness is unheard of by those who write an awful lot
The top of their concerns it is definitely not!
so when something just needs to be replaced
scribbles & scratches & now the old is erased
must be just right practically flawless, after all it is my insides revealing
& to the world I'm expressing all that I'm feeling
writing is my way to release
Keeping my mind, body, & soul at peace
temporarily escaping from reality
To clear & free my mentality
free of judgement I'm able to openly express
any & everything that may be causing me stress
you need to recognize it, take care of it, & set it FREE!!
You will feel better when you move on & let it be
there's no time to sit & reflect on it while you dwell
you're not a ******* hermit crab who refuses to leave his shell!!
by now the hours have passed on the clock
I finally got rid of my writer's block
As sunlight greets me through my
window
remaining raindrops create a little rainbow
I knew it then
That I ******* did it again!!
My **** sleep been forgotten
Surprisingly this happens quite often
So as I watch the morning sky get brighter & brighter
I have not a single doubt that I'll forever be a late night writer
It's something I could never quit
Without my notebooks and pens my life I couldn't imagine it!

My hand, the pen
Cannot conceive
Words that cause
The make believe
To spring to life
And take away
The dark which fights
Like hell to stay
And so my heart
Swells with sores
Poison seeps
Into my pores
I lie down
In my made bed
Distorted dreams
Inside my head

A worthless instrument filled with sentiment
That is what I want to take
   from when I thoroughly become benevolent.

I yearn a reminder of a version
Of myself where I don't have piercing eyes
Or a cold body
Or a stifling loathe of beings similar to myself
Or a need to curl up to a ball when pens *****

Ah fornicate this I can't write anymore

There's a hope buried in me
It multiplies like bamboo shoots entangling
It says grow thorns, be turgid
It says pop horns, stay frigid

I walk down the corridor constantly defying myself
I'm one character I think
Am I

She oft praises the strokes of my pen
Yet when her image comes into mind
The words in my head run thin
And my ink runs prematurely dry

I have not written a thing worth mentioning
For the girl with the cute button nose
The hand clasped ‘round my pen begins fidgeting
As my mind remembers her toes

I stare blankly at pages of paper
When my mind’s eye conjures her smile
My cerebral wells start to taper
Though my love for her flows as the Nile

The beauty of her body is not justified in text
So I will spare you the reading: her beauty is best