we write when we're at our weakest
we write when we've been cut open
we write when we're bleeding
we write when we're dying inside

Not all those who write are sad,
but all sad people write.

thank god i can’t write good poetry
the best poetry comes from pain and hurt if you ask me
so although i can’t write like i used to
at least it means i’m doing alright

I don't know why I allow myself
to be charmed by you,
your bright face and dulcet tones
promising me rich rewards
for my investment
if I give in just one more time
and return to you.

Why do I believe it will be different this time
when I have come back
time after time
submitting myself to your allure
only to see my efforts crumble
into a thousand pieces
like a clump of litter
from the cat box.

Maybe next time I will remember
the odor of those crumbles
and not allow my imagination
to fool me into returning.

But I doubt it.

This dark soil
teems with potency
of light and life
the sun stirs the soul
hidden in wait
for the creative juices
to flow and saturate
its seeds to spring.

I am unsure what is worse;
seeing you in my dreams,
or not at all.
Each way provides
hurt and sadness,
and the realization that you’re gone and never coming back.

Today I realized I’m responsible
for the destructive crash
that brought me to where I am.
There were quite a few red lights,
but I ignored them completely.
After all, it’s the green lights
that always look so beautiful
when you are out at night.