#writingblock
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
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 10:02 PM UTC
Again and again and once again
I face a blank white paper.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
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
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
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.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
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.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
The butterflies died in my stomach
and roses wilted too.
It seems that all beauty ceases to exist anymore,
the moment I saw you.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
The words of fire.
The self sacrifice.
To our devils own.
Begin the march downwards.
And burn.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC