Can’t write,

Don’t know why,

Often scary,

When I try.

good, so good
that's what they say about it-
but when I peer down at the scrawl
led-dragged, so heavily
I know it can never be enough.

bokeh lights and smoke streams
an insignificant metaphor-
just as Love is an understatement.
bullet wounds don't match
how hard You hurt.

discontent gets old
and eight months of displeasure
of dead static psychosis
have rendered me useless;
defined me as dead
to whatever connection I held
with beauty, glory,
understanding.

so good, they say
as the pictures piece together
in the minds hungry eye,
starving to relate,
unknown to the fact
it can never catch the passion;
the poetry is powerless.

It's been hard,
To write since you left.
My words,
They hardly paint,
Anything of,
Substance.
You were my muse,
It seems,
The Clyde to,
My Bonnie,
At least it seems like it,
Anyway.
It's not so perfect,
This situation,
Or you and I.
But *******,
I wish,
You hadn't taken my words,
So far away.

I relate
to this black screen.
So defiant
In its emptiness.
Perfect in
Secret dimension,
Obelisk
Death.

I haven't picked up the pen
in quite some time

It seems as if I'm forgetting
that poetry is everything I used to be

Writing was my escape
And now I feel more than I can take

Now, I'm picking up the pen
Telling my emotions

Explaining the writers block that controlled me

I will finally start again

Me oh my, I can't help but ask why. Why am I stuck in a slump, thinking while seated upon my ****, I have no clue, no answer, no solution, how can I possibly come to a resolution?
I'm in need of eyes, but I've no idea how to catch them, I'm in need of ears, but I know no words to which people would lend them.
To touch a heart, to cause a smile, can I go the mile?
Where to start, when to depart, this is actually quite hard...

I have never starred at a blank page and never not known what to write.
Its like the words  no longer express my feelings, feelings that are no longer short phrases or poems of emotions.

My feelings  are inexpressible they have become so complicating.
I have mentally blocked out what was my outlet " Writing". I was once able to let out my emotions on a page and leave them there, But now its like I write an emotion and gain twice as much back.

I have lost my battle  and my strength to continue to try. As I sit here writing I realize that this may not make sense to anyone else but me. If you are reading this I have never wanted to make sense to anyone, because these are my feelings . I am just writing how I feel

To answer your question, it could be I stopped believing
years ago when I sent my friend before the chopping block.
Stop! I'll sell information for passage.
Stop! I'm scared to death of dying.
Where she lives.
Such a shame.
Where she hangs.
I'll take the blame.
Where she showers, even.
Stop! I'll give you the words you want if you make this hurting stop.
Stop! You don't have to crack my brain open with a hammer chop,
you don't have to use pliers to pry what you want from my head,
when you can listen to me talk freely, then take the message and run.
Where she lives.
Such a shame.
Where she hangs.
I'll take the blame.
So much will change.
Where she showers, even.

But if you call for me, I'll be there.
Wearing a straight face that's
driven me here, so insane, I don't
care how rapidly my conscience
eats the very strength on which
I stand. I'm alive without the will to live.
But if you call for me, I'll  be there.
Wearing a straight face.