the last time I felt like someone cared about me was when
we were on my bed,
laughing and rolling around and
being so close to one another.
you were trying (notice I said trying)
to tickle me and you failed miserably.
you somehow ended up on top of me and
then your warm, tender hand (the right one, specifically)
ended up holding me by my waist and
you slowly made your way up to my face as you
caressed my cheek.
you leaned down slowly to kiss me and that was the last time I
know someone cared about me.

I feel like I'm all alone in the world because I'm slowly, but surely, being
forced to shut myself out from it.
trust me, it's not something that I want to do.
but it's something that I have to do, because if I don't then
things will just continue to get worse and
I just simply cannot afford anymore heartbreak.

everyone is dead. well, not everyone.
but most of us are.
we're just walking corpses waiting for Death to take us away
from this Hell we call Earth.

*aren't we?

we
seeth
all
that
be
bond
to
the
steps heaven
the
beneficiaries of love

It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane

Trying to find inspiration to write when you’re not inspired is impossible.  You would think that having not written anything for some time would be enough. It’s not.

You’ve looked to your life, surroundings, experiences, but nothing works.  You think of other writings that have inspired you before, but there’s nothing there.

You think, “What if I can’t write anymore? What if my inspiration has run out?” But then you think that was not the case.  You just have a block.  You hope.

Then something comes along to inspire you.  You try to write.  What comes out expresses your feelings out that moment.  It just flows out. You may write a little short poem or a nice long story.

You wonder how long this inspiration will last.  Will it be for just this writing session or will it last for a long while.

Right now you don’t care how long it will last.  You’re writing now!

We're in a car going twenty too fast on the highway, and I don't know where we're headed.

Maybe the headlights will take us to a home where we've never lived or maybe somewhere where the flames aren't as shallow.

Rain has been beating the windows for at least four hours, and I can almost see lightning through all the cigarette smoke.

He says that he can see clearer than ever.

I swear ever since the radio lost signal, I've basically been able to hear the stardust in every shallow breath he takes. 

I can't believe all it took was a broken radio to see him for the kind of words he was meant to be.

The kind that rip apart a person's heart when they finally read them the way they were always meant to be read.

His name is just a noise, and his face is only skin;but the fault lines etched into his bones make me want to believe there are more earthquakes inside him than he thinks.

He makes me want to believe there's something more to life than his fingers wrapping themselves around mine as the car wraps itself around a tree.

Your tired little smiles
and laughs that live a half-life
before blossoming into sighs.
Your spontaneous songs,
sourly smacking notes
from your brain.
Your insane babblings
that whisper sweetly to me.
Your goose-like honk,
signaling the fast approach
of sleep.
Your utterly annoying
playful shrugs.
That's the **** I'll miss...

Thine leaves art wilted, flying to and fro,
And thy limbs reach out as if in sorrow.
"Dost thou not remember what once was held?”
Thy branches crack whilst leaves into dance meld.
The moon doth rise as children’s laughter rings.
Through the night thy old hollow solemnly sings
Of twisted grins and melancholy wolf cries,
And how every man thee meet sadly dies.
But thy eternal heartbreak shall not wane
Thy every breath will be met with pure pain;
Death shall not return thee to its icy grip.
Forevermore, thou shalt bring people to Death.
Until the rope that hangs on thine branch cease,
Cursed to be known only as The Hanging Tree.