Oftentimes,
A poet doesn't lift their pen daily,
It's better to write nothing,
Than force something out.

As well for the fact,
Some things are best left unsaid,
This world is a rocky streambed.

She wants to read my personals,
The ones I don't ever post.
All the dusty notebooks,
All the hard years and burning memories.
You can read them bb,
But only if you are ready,
To learn history hurts.

In my left ear,
Mozart on two times speed,
In my right,
The full Bible read in Chinese.
The strange writers in my mind,
Will take inspiration from anything.
So here is a sentiment in Chinese

Who invited the instigators?
I didn't,
Did you?
They don't work,
They don't write,
Unless it's a comment made out of spite.
Social medias were built to throw around blame,
If you like spreading rumors, may I suggest Facebook?
Wherever you do it,
Don't do it here,
You're one poem,
Can't be a line attacking people you've never met.
I'm sick of all the strays,
If you come here, come for art,
Come to write.

I just found out,
Hp lost a good one today.
Their account is a 404,
Page not found.
It was all good work,
Until it was all gone.

How do I beat writers block?
How do I scale a wall,
Google won't give me answers at all.

How do I fix a broken star?
How do I mend a shattered dream,
Is the answer hidden in the stream?

Preacher please,
Would you open your doors for me?
I have sinned yes,
But is sin is common in my profession's play.
The night is awfully cold,
If only you'd give me a moment,
To warm my hands by the hearth.
Certainly one of God's high and mighty,
Would let a poor man thaw his fingers.
I miss their mobility,
I can barely hold my own hands,
Much less a pen.

I would love to say our friendship is inherent. To say that our hearts beat to
the same pulse, that we have the blood inside us in common, and that our
words blend into each other perfectly seems like the right thing to say.
However, I would be lying. I have to fight and beg my emotions to reveal
themselves to you.
Trying to write about us feels like drawing water from a frozen well.
Miscommunications happen often and it's difficult to tell what you're
thinking.
But still, we are us anyways.
The water in the lake we grew up around knows our lives well. If its pebbles
and sand could speak, they would recite our every word back to us better
than we could.
The moon knows how much I care about you because I tell her often. She
shines brightly at our stories.
Even when I don't understand you, my mind pleads to.
My hands write the words I can't tell you, and the world of poetry knows
how desperate I am for you to know these things.  
My art glows with my expressions of you. It tells visual stories I have never
spoken.
We are not inherent. I have never been able to tell you exactly how much I
care about you. I am terrified of confrontation and disagreements, so I don't
always say exactly what I think.
But I'll always try my hardest to show how I feel. You may never read these
words, but I hope you somehow feel them anyways.