Immune to the depravity.
Enslaved to the creativity.
A weaken soul, to the artist brush.
A becon of burning coals, in the artisans stove.

Two sides of the same coin.

We are writers.
We are painters.
We are smelters.
We are dancers.
We are singers.

We are art.

We are, us.

I condemn you. I condemn you.
One; for the pain you brought.
And the second for the continual shame.

**** you. **** you.
One; for my severed heart on the ground.
And the second for the boot stomped across it.

I hate you. I hate you.
One; for my dignity.
And the second for my pride.

I shall forgive you. I shall forgive you.**
One; for the pity I feel for you,
And the second for my own self-worth.

Nothing is happening...
I may have lost my ability
to form words.
Still nothing is happening.

My pen is empty.
My fingers tied in knots.
My tongue has wrung dry.

When will it all being anew...
I ask.
When nothing is happening,
with this heavy block crushing my hands
of any progress I might have brought into the light.

All because nothing is happening,
when you have The Writers Block.

I grew up in a house with white walls
The light shined through the brighter
Every happy morning
In my bed beside my brother.

When my Dad first drank
Dry rot found a nest
We moved into a house with cream coloured walls,
Without my father.

I saw the cream walls turn blue
When I broke a pen on my brother
And the ink became his blood of this fight
We moved into a house with purple walls

I saw the purple walls turn grey
When we all got our own rooms
And we all chose the same colour
As we sat alone.

I moved into a house with black walls
When my life dragged me away from them
The light shone through the darker
Every unhappy morning.

My house was small
It was damp and it was dark
I heard a knock at the black door
And light came in with you.

We moved into a house with white walls
Every morning a birth of new sunlight
Every happy morning,
Waking up beside you and smiling

I don't ever drink
I keep a watch for dry rot
And our walls stay white
Forever.

I'm sure I mean something
With the way
I craft these lines
With words
That I have the
Barest understanding
of their real meaning
And sometimes I do
I know what I am saying
Can you see
Though
It's never a waste
When one
Just one
Can understand
the importance of
this word here
Or that one there
Or why I miss spell this
I probably couldn't spell it anyway
So yes
I'm sure
I must mean something
Even though
I sometimes don't know it
But even when I do
Its all up to you
Dear reader
It's YOUR  perspective
YOUR opinion
Of my words
That will last
Longest in your mind
I wonder what
the meaning behind
This one
is
Though I
Think it's
Plain to see