my tongue feels heavy,
like to write is to drag one heavy damp
rag across a desk that's getting dusty

do I still make sense
because it surely doesn't make sense
to use a wet rag before you use a duster

Again and again and once again
I face a blank white paper.

when our mind is full of great ideas
we want to write them down
yet there are times when we  discover
that there is no connection from our brain
to all the instruments we use
to transcribe our flighty thoughts
    to give them shape on paper, screen, or in the sand

sometimes it helps to pause a bit and reconsider
what we do really want to say  
    focus and concentrate
    articulate precisely yet suggestively
our indomitable urge to formulate
    the turmoil of emotions we may harbor
    our wild ideas of revolution
    the overbearing pain of loss and separation
    grey landscapes of depression
    attractions of dramatic suicide
also the joy and pleasures of deep love
    of unexpected friendships found
        where even angels fear to tread
    the happiness of our children
    the love we recognize
        often too late
    our parents have bestowed on us

et cetera  et cetera

the catalogue of our themes
expands through our lives
so do the challenges
of how to tell the tale

it helps to aim for clarity
we have to  let our instruments of writing know
which of our turbulently swirling thoughts
should earn the privilege
to become words
    and be communicated
to people who
    before they read our verse
have no idea at all
    that we exist

Separation Anxiety.
To court this phenom, we must first observe
Its grandiose stature, to which we will unnerve
For as permanent as the night sky may be,
Only its constellated decorations do we see.
And each single time we interrupt the night,
We initiate stellar parallax, and to our sight,
We see the shift of our feeling strangle
And find the cords of our heart untangle
To twists and and turns in heaven’s shrine
And a comet shall fall in my hands
Its all mine.

The possibilities, the chances, the causes.
The results
Forever rounded in time
The course
No straight path, revisit the past,
And that is the feeling.
When catching a glimpse of intensity.
When sights bridge during a seconds split.
And then lost.
Led by a mindless state.

Into the depths of the mind's abyss
There is no light. Sight. Lost.
Intertwining grips. Proceed.
Take those lost with us. Lead.
Bur round and round to nature's end.
The self,  of yours
Is where this loop ends.

Endless.

The words of fire.
The self sacrifice.
To our devils own.
Begin the march downwards.
And burn.