Broken back bent we toil on our hearts,
pen silently swooping on the purest of sheets,
cigarette smoke blooms out in the dark,
as burnt fingertips drum up retreat,
the words flow in strings,
and get lost in the wind,
nicotine, dopamine drifting in streams,
i’m on an endless highway through the peaks of my brain,
the waves are breaking all over my dreams,
as my synapses rush; flushed down the drain,
a million overflowing ashtrays,
a crackling bowl of brainwaves,
staccato clicks of pen tops,
holding tight as the flow stops

quietly she sits surrounded by the buzzing of  people
the blank paper sitting before her
her mind a storm of ideas yet she is unable to express them
is it the room filled with people?
all of those people making her uneasy
acting as a wall between her mind and that piece of paper
or is it the worry?
the worry of what people will think of her poem
hundreds of words race through her mind yet there are still none on that piece of paper

The ink in my veins seems to have run dry.
Circulation problems, maybe.
My soul is desperate to write,
but the pen isn't working,
and I'm left to make blank indentations
on a scrap of tattered paper.