I sit down at my desk,
Staring blankly at the sheet in front of me.

Pure white,
a fresh start.

The pen in my hand twirls gracefully,

Not a word written on the paper.
My ideas were foolish, after all.

Until the pen moved on it’s own.

Long, flowing lines graced the page,
grazing the edges,
but not spilled at all.

The pen halted for only a minute,
as I admire the beautiful world it’s created.

But the pen does not stop, nor does it have mercy.

Dots and lines
Strokes of memory
Brushing it’s tortuous path

The ink held no mercy, and in mercy’s place came agony
the agony tying the strings of ink together until it became a messy puddle
even after all space was filled.
The pen swung
back
and forth
tearing at the paper
My  perfect  world  a   mess    of ink
    and   paper    
and             guilt

My eyes try to close
as tepid sweat stratifies on my clothes.
With cold feet and a hot head,
I struggle against the bed.
Although it comes to me rarely,
the tempest feeling of tingling insensitivity,
beautifully disgusting, is quite bittersweet.
The night should be simple,
yet it’s too brutal and holds me ungentle.
And so I pop pills like pimples
to give tranquility to my mental.

They’re not enough. It’s never enough.
One cup, just one since I’m already up.
One drink turns into two and I don’t feel rough.
But I feel...an implore for more. I wouldn’t bluff,
another gulp, another gulp, and I feel stuffed
interestingly enough. But I feel… handcuffed
with both pitiful pleasure and passionate pain,
the drinks are starting to drown my brain.

I fall down under the surface,
where the thunder can’t make me nervous.
Where I can’t sunder my purpose,
where I wonder what my worth is,
wearing wonder fiery as a furnace.
Hoping to plunder my brain’s service
with a hunger to recurve this
surly slumber of unbound defervesce.

These dreams beckon me to come play and see
a weightless joy, peace, even glee
without burden. But suddenly I only awake to see
complacency; ugly gluttony keeps me company.
My emotional darkness, despair, despondency,
countered by my own chaotic nepenthe,
gives me sad servitude disguised as lying liberty.
The turmoil in my thoughts twists, turns
like mazes as my mind mends, burns
deeper, deeper, deeper down.
Just to sleep, I turn into a clown,
holding a bee for honey as it stings me.

Time heals.
Time bends.
Time gives us chances
to make amends.
Time gives.
Time takes.
In time, we learn from our mistakes.
For a time you'll live.
In time, you'll die.
So make the most of your time.
Don't be afraid to reach for the sky.

Nothing really changed. It seemed so nice,
so fun, but in the end, it was the same.
We got to know each other, I extended my hand.
She took it, giving me hope. Smiles passing
between us, only lips between us, it felt good.
Whispers of more, promises, implores, exciting.
Perhaps it would be different this time. Hopefully.
The chance of rain was zero and I was my own hero.
Finally. But finally she had enough of me.
She loved glee and took it from me. My feelings...
were approaching zero even though I did her right.
I was left for giving her what she wanted;
I just couldn’t integrate myself in her life.
I’m not sure why,
but again and again, I find myself hurting from others.
But again I have my eyes to the sky,
looking for the bluest of colors.