A poet never really stops writing,
only sometimes, we lose the strength to write it all down.

But when we write,
we spill our hearts upon the pages.
Every ink filled line,
giving full access to our minds,
for whoever dares to read them.

I apologize for the tears and blood stains,
sometimes my pen reveals too much.
As I close my eyes,
and my hand glides across the page,
my soul speaks to me in the best possible way.

Creativity does not come with the pen.
I have 1...2...3....4..5!
I have 5 pens.
Yet creativity, I have none.

Writing has been a burning passion
Lately the fire has been waning
Like the crescent moon coming back around
In this moment I am still fading
I know it soon will return to me
But in what moment might it come back?
Cause lately I’ve been feeling like creativity is what I lack.
Or possibly a misguided soul
Or suppression of my true feelings.

Through troubled waters and vicious seas
I admit, I am still healing

The numbing I have come to know
Is degrading of my deepest treasure.
A whirlwind of fire, a breeze of wind,
An emotional strength beyond measure.

Without knowing what else to do
What else to write
I sit and glare at a book only half finished
I look for help
Nothing seems to help my writer’s block
Getting rid of a character might do the trick

The protagonist?
Maybe?
Or maybe not
I don’t know

I’m just tired of writing this autobiography

Is there no pen for my hand to bear?
No thought tamed by self owned wit?
The stationary leers into me,
My mind succumbs to hysterical fit.
To what veil shrouds my mind?
A clairvoyant candle once for lit.
O' my imagination's seems,
... acquaintances
                 far past met.