A mind, I'm trying to find a mind
to read to help me get refined,
so that my guise may come to hide
behind my shallowness of mind.

But friends are few, and far between
a while it's been since I have looked upon them,
so I'll love the world
a little less while I'm without them.

Still I'll push on, borrow a breath
to test the mind out of context
to get to know someone I've made
but I will slow with each delay.

And now I write in Jic and Saw
my people are in pieces
I might just try to talk about
completely different species.

For those you know cannot be faked
but you can take a part and break
the pieces off until you have
a species for the minds you make.

My head is empty,
I think there's a hole,
Because every time I fill it up,
It all seems to go.
Did my inspirations take a walk,
Is my talent wandering?
Where are my thoughts,
One empty head,
That's all I've got.

Dark caverns of cranium so vast they get lost in the immense black abyss

There are zero ways to depict the frustration that writer's block is

The sentence fragments stab wounds into soul until blood is gushing out

The only method I know how to start mending is to verse something sane

A poem that can untangle the knot of multiple conflicting emotions winding it's way through my skeleton

Nothing comes to mind, each stroke and word aches inside me.

A fleeting thought coming up dry in my throat.

My temple, empty and abandoned.

Only traces of wine left, They have forsaken me.

They have cursed me, ripping out what made me alive.

I no longer hear the future only sinister laughter

Under the altar is a reminder of what could’ve been.

They think I am undeserving.

They know I would rather die than be nothing.

Why make me believe it?
-Percy

Lost lines
withered fruit upon the vine
which snuffs a lighted candle
in the writers mind
the skull, that egg
which once was full and round
now echoes, hollow with the sound
of missing words no longer found

The more words I learn
The more apt I get at conveying the precise notion
But
The more words I learn
The further I separate myself from those I’m writing to

I cannot explain to those
That I need to hear me
In such a way which is meaningful
To them
for me

I toil on
Learning to say something simpler
Clearer
Despite the barrage of stimulus I wish to demonstrate
I toil on
Saying what's been said
Stealing greater sculptors scalpels


I am undone

I'm not a big fan of flies,
but I don't hate them.
I don't really like pies,
but I can make them.

I love my life, and can
fake it when I don't.
I could go on with
this poem, but it's
the end, so I won't.