I'm in midst writers block.
I don't want to stop writing but you might want to stop reading.
This will be senseless.
This will be repetitive.
My brain creates no patterns.
Maybe I am not a writer.
Maybe I can't write some worthwhile.
But maybe **** that "poem"
THAT POEM THAT ****** MY MIND.
And **** that poet too.
I am a writer, and I have writers block.

So they flee; once beautiful narratives detached from me and took off running.
For my own sake, I eventually follow and take off hunting.

Crossing the bridge to the ocean, finding no words above or beneath their pillars or the sun-setting shades on the water in motion.

Maybe I'll find the words perched on the bridge as a little black bird, who mirrored me in a way that resonated with my soul but whose tune sang not one melodic word.

I go to the ocean, and heavy waves collapsing onto beds of sand sighed no release for me, and I leave.

Home, I paint a picture and coaxed a thousand  empty words out of it, that rang like broken records and sang to me deep into the night.

I awake to a blizzard, beautiful white.
A cold I felt I'd brewed with my mind
So I try and dive into a novel only to find my mind's waters shallow, and the pages became no more than ink printed paper.
I think myself incapable;

I look to the bottle, mostly white,
It sat on my nightstand by white papers that so longed for me to write.
I kick my head back and let the words pour from the bottle and back into me, loosening my grip, they could finally flow free.

She finally did it
She had the nerve
It came as easy as 1,2,3
For you and me.

This was her breaking point
Her time to fly high
End all this pain inside
to just call it her end.

In her manic state
Impulse hit her
She wraps the rope
Around her neck

She pulls it tight
Her tears fall
Her breathing becomes
Shallow and painful
The room starts grow dark.

Time passes
uncertainty as to how long.
What is going on?
Am I still alive?
Why is it so cold?

I'm numb.
I cant feel anything.
No pain.
No love.
Nothing.
Its...

Perfect.
After all this searching
For what is missing
I have finally found it!
I've never felt better!

Then...
I start to see a light again
and breathing becomes even more painful
and the pain starts to come back..

NO
WAIT!
I'm happy here!
I fight, I resist
I don't want to go back
I cry - more pain
I feel - more heartbreaking tears
I remember - more terrifying memories
The world growing heavier upon my shoulders again.

I'm back..
What I once thought for a brief minute or two was my new safe place, Inner-peace pain free zone was only an attempt.

Now the question that circles is
WHY did you save me?






Right before Christmas (2015) the stress built up and I "tried" to **** myself. Though i did succeed for a brief moment and it was an attempt cause my s.o. found me and brought me back to life. though i am still sitting here question why and wondering what my purpose is. Ive had a tad bit of writers block but i want to get this story out there too so this is all i can get hopefully at a later date there can be a better poem.

If anyone is struggling with depression and ever is stopping to this level I am here to talk and I encourage it all I needed that night was someone to talk to and no one was there for me prior to the moment.

I breathe
I see
I feel
I yawn
I am alive

I shake
I stress
I moan
I grunt
I am here

I believe
I cry
I touch
I react
I am fine

I caress
I claw
I spank
I bite
I shake
I am ecstatic

I rest
I dance
I walk
I strut
I even run
I am healthy

I drink
I smoke
I talk
I hug
I like
I love
I am still here

I speed
I lash out
I headbang
I folk dance
I hold your hand

I fall
I stand
I tip toe
I walk in circles
I slide

I glance
I enjoy
I fight
I sit back
I sacrifice
I befriend
I help
I think

I write
I sing
I narrate
I block
I break
I create

I am blessed

Hello my old friend.
I guess it’s nice to see you again.
You’ve been visiting me so much lately.
Nothing in my head is forming anything straightly
It’s all jumbled and clouded and mixed.
I don’t know how this problem can be fixed
Writer’s block has gotten a hold on me!
It just won’t let my writings be!
I used to be able to write poem after poem,
But now I’m lucky if I even get a quote done.
Maybe if I shoot myself in the head
The creativity will spill out all over my bed.
I want to make a name for myself!
But right now, I just see my book on a dusty shelf.
I continuously tap key after key
Why won’t any nice rhymes come out of me?
I keep on searching and searching
I do all of my researching
On the topics I need to write
Yet nothing in this poem seems right
I want to write about my personal experiences.
But right now my book is on clearance.
I don’t feel good enough to make it in this industry
I don’t want to let this blank mind stop me
Yet it feels as if I have no choice.
It feels as if I have lost my voice.
Writer’s block is Ursula in the deep sea
She made this contact with me
I grew my vocabulary but lost my voice
Why did I make this choice?
It’s just mismatched words and no originality
Where is my creativity?
I used to have such a loud mind.
But now everything’s quiet and I mind.

Of course the full first poem I’ve written in a month is about not being able to write.
Sounds like me, I’m just the type.

What does one do when they have no inspiration?
How does an artist stay an artist without a muse?
How does one lonely poet write her most beautiful piece yet without the heartbreak driving her nails?

How can a beauty stand alone,
No lover or wondering eye,
How can she love herself when no one is around to hold her up,
When she tears herself down?

When does inspiration strike?
Is it holding your lovers hand or avenging your fallen warrior?
Is it lying alone in a large unforgiving bed,
With the sounds of your sobs as your dying lullaby?

What is inspiration?
When does it strike?
Maybe at the end of this poem,
I'll find mine.

How very lonely HP is,
In the middle of the night,
Reading long ago poems by friends,
Tapping little red hearts,
Only time I'm available,
After dusk; hours before dawn,
Reposting poems, my fingers just as assailable as Moby ****,
Or Hansel's and Gretel's witch,
I stare at blank, gray suns,
Wishes I, I had some to use,
To uplift; to free,
All the beautiful poetry,
Even the ones with coquetry,
I rapidly kiss plusses with my right thumb,
Adding to worthy collections,
Of addictive confections,
'Till 2,
When alas I sip hot coco,
Scratch my ****,
And fall asleep beside my cat; momo.

I am the sky
That's forever falling
I am the plant
My seeds are sprouting
Basking in her summer sun
Taking in her splendour
Oh, how she comes undone

I see the day
Twinkling at the night
Feeling her endless distance
A constant companion
Urging her to shine so bright

Starlings
Bury and swoop
Upon the horizons
Making meaning
For the senses
Sea licking salt;
She yearns for that
No pretenses

There will come a time
When she no longer questions
Or calculates good intentions
Her arms grasping out
To nurture earth
From up above
A heavenly birth
Will fall and rain
A billion drops
Of inspiration

Smiles
Tiny shards of light
Radiating her true reflection
Like simple words on a page
Reaching a familiar end
Scribbling
Screaming for release.
The writing comes in waves.
*Hello, old friend...

When your thoughts are too vague and you can't fathom where would your ideas go,
When all you need is to scribble down all those but you're too lazy to do,
When you can't help but deny that your childhood dream is now turning blue,
And when all you've written for almost your lifetime were just mediocre and nonsense clue.

Then stop! Take a break and let your hand wander,
Let it feel a different job aside from painting ink in your paper,
Maybe it needs a little time for itself to discover,
And talk to the Almighty God through prayer.