I planted my feet in the steady solitary spot
to wait and listen if someone wished to speak
or sing or shout or just sit in silent company

high up on the ridge
you stand me up

to look into my soul
closer now

I see your love
beating fast

and I fall deep
into your heart

It doesn't even matter anymore
If I exist or not
Or if I'm at death's door
I've knocked on it eleven times and hopefully twelve times a charm
What's the ******* harm?
I'll be gone
Just another life that did not matter
Just another soul buried in the ground
The one you said had a face that was round
The one you said had a heart that was proud
And a spirit so stunning and loud
I was never one meant to live so long
My fate was a song
A song sung from the me inside
I've accepted I'm not good enough
I've accepted the way the world is, but I can't seem to take it cause it drives me mad
And that
That is what shortens my fate
My fate to die
I'll wonder what death's arms feel like and how much Hell scorches in my veins for internity

The only way you could change my mind is through my ice cold heart

Half the time
The mirror smiles at me
And the other half
Breaks because of me
Torn between the complexities of me

Imperfection,
Why should such a cruel word exist?

Beautiful,
Why should a word so magnificent be spoken so seldomly?

Why should I,
As a woman compare and contrast?


Why should it matter what size certain body parts are or are not?

Is the heart, the soul, not all you need?

Do you know how much you really messed me up?
     This is not a poem of love, but of sadness, sorrow, rage, and hatred.
     I am sad when I get flashbacks of all those times you let me down. All those times I cracked; sat shattered, on the ground like broken glass, but you were screaming too loud to hear my cries of terror.
     The inescapable terror that is my life.
     These flashbacks then put me into a deep sorrow. Where I isolate myself, because with every tear I'm tearing down the emotional block that I stayed up at night, while not getting any sleep, to build. So you, or anyone really, could never could come in.
     Once I am drowning in this sorrow, and my body is still because I've stuck to one position to keep me from pacing, it turns to rage and my body (bones) starts shaking. I can feel the blood in my veins heat as I gather up what's left of me from the area surrounding me. With these sharp, broken pieces I starting building. And as I build the usual wall around me with every piece I place, a stream of swears comes rolling off my tongue, in regards to you, and I pretend that each piece is in you, harder than the knife permanently in my chest.
     And once my barriers are back, I continue to hate you with the deepest hatred I can muster up from my broken soul.

Majestic midnight weaves it's spell
requiring us to sit and tell
of stories frightening and beguiling
Of scares and prayers
Of lies and truths
Of pain and happiness
Of fright and nightmares
Of redemption and of damnation.
Midnight feeds on emotion
Drink it's potion and offer devotion.
Silent midnight, stays and listens
Watches your tears as they glisten
running down your drawn face
casting no judgement or illumination
on your midnight tears.

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.