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Ink crawling on aged paper
With tales and stories able to
Take you away from this
Problematic world.

Under your fingerprint lies the
Feel of countless emotions and ideas
Blessed by imagination.

Sweet aroma fills your lungs with a
Breath of crisp pages and
Sacred smoke from an eternal flame of inspiration.

Stains from shed tears caused by
Moments of bittersweet.

United as one with the names
Printed on a page.

Are their emotions mine too?
For they have become a
Key to a door of escape -

Escape from reality.
 Apr 2017 HappyHappyHappy
AB
coats of dust & pollen settle
on an unoccupied desk;
clumps of rust sprout
on faded typewriter keys.

marmalade pages with
elaborate strokes & scribbles
shrivel like mango slices
suffocating in tropical heat.

a dozen lolling envelopes
with awe inciting addresses
from San Francisco to Shanghai
each wither like aging flowers.

the room once gleaming in
luminescence now hoards darkness.
brandeis blue curtains drape
the windows, stifling sunlight.

sober emotions linger
in the thick, musty air;
overripe creativity decays
into the unwashed floorboards.
rhyme, rhythm, & reason
of the mind cease to bloom;
curiosity & inspiration fall dormant
in a chilling, thoughtless winter.

the mind of a former poet
is an unkept garden;
an Eden of ideas abandoned
in favor of myopic trivialities.

though unattended, the
garden is never barren;
cultivate your imagination &
you will always harvest beauty.

**it’s never too late to pick up your pen;
water your mind & your garden will grow!
 Apr 2017 HappyHappyHappy
Love
Anxiety is rocking back and forth at 1am like a small frightened child.
It's slowly pulling every single hair out of your arms.
It's biting your nails, and picking at your skin.
It's those tiny snaps that make no noise.

Anxiety is taking a curve at 110 mph.

Anxiety is my red hair.
Its the first thing that people see about me, and the first thing they assume is fake.

Anxiety is puking. Having no control over your body and becoming physically ill.

Its replying to a text message .2 seconds after it was received and then turning off your phone because you don't want to see the other persons response to your swift reply.

Anxiety is noticing. Its noticing the minute changes in tone, posture, manurisims and ticks, music choices when you are around, and how often they use descriptive words that could subconsciously be describing you.

Anxiety is failed medications, after failure, after failure, after failure, after failure, after failure. You become the failure.

Anxiety is a broken record.
Knowing that everything is fine, still panicking at the drop of a pin.
Its replaying conversations you've had with others over the mental dispute of one tiny word, even years after the conversation occurred.
Its overthinking.
It's constantly wondering if your hands are in the right position, if your resting ***** face is showing, or if you have a hair on the wrong side of your part.
It's locking the door, both locks, checking the locks, leaving, turning around and checking the locks again, leaving, and then turning around to make sure the iron is off.

Anxiety is not ordering food because you don't want to talk to the wait staff, nor eat infront of others because you know you will make a mess of yourself.

Anxiety is constantly being a clumsy fool. It's things you can't control and it's faceplants on concrete.
It's making plans in advance, way in advance. It's asking your friends what their plans for New Year's Eve are, even though it's only March.
It's wanting to ask a girl out on a date, even though you have been on multiple with her, and trying to schedule it two and a half months in advance.

Anxiety is lists.
It's remembering what time you brushed your teeth this morning, but forgetting the childhood story your friend told you 5 minutes ago.
It's repeating yourself because you forget your own words from 5 minutes ago.
It's looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger.
It's waking up while driving down the road, having no clue what's went on in the past 24 hours.

Anxiety is like drinking on a hangover.
It's mental, it's physical, it's psychotic.
It's seizures, it's palpitations, it's hospital trips with whispers of a straight jacket.

Anxiety is more than being afraid of a stage, anxiety is the downfall of me.
The grass skirt women walks the moon soaked sand.

In each, hands are her magic stones which she could have never sold.

Each one different in all possible ways.

One is red, and bright other blue and clear.

So as she walks many turn and hear.

A song of cletic muse with brilliant hues coming to sight.

She places them in a wooden circle then praise there powers
Magic stones
A futile pen, mortally wounded
By the razor hands of a leering clock
Lies bleeding;
Staining irrevcocably
The snow-white side-ruled shroud
That once was hunger's meal;
Casting low, long shadows
Over unborn, nonexistent lines.
                     << >>
This is the copyrighted title for the book I will eventually publish - if I have to handwrite it myself.  But this piece may not be in it. Not real satisfied with it.
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