These days I dredge the past
                 for the kind of  pain
                      that used to drive
                        my words. Heartache
                 was the fuel of poetry
            and I drove those lines
                                  like a madman.
But, now that tank runs dry,
          which, I guess, is a good
                                  thing really.

I 

              spilled          some
                                         words
        on                  the

Floor and
                                               as they lay
                    they
                                    ­  surmount
     all
I've    ever     written.



                                 ...and I lay down my pen for a broom.

Motivations burn,
Searing into my ****** mind!
Yet the flame dies down…
Disappearing like a ghost,
Leaving me an empty husk.

This is going to be the worst poem you’ll ever read.
Because it is written with frustration,
Made during a time when a writer is at loss of words.
This poem is an effect of writer’s block.
No rhymes, no style, no meter.
Just a collection of verses put together
By my mind aching to bleed on paper,
But couldn’t, these thoughts are too scattered…
Too many…
All trying to get out the door at once,
And so the words that are meant to describe them
Can’t go through.
I read my previous poems and I lament
Over the fact that I can’t write the same way again.
This is the worse poem you’ll ever read,
This is the worst poem I ever wrote,
Made entirely from the worst torture for any writer.

Everything costs money and you never have the time
Want to be an artist, but your poems can't seem to rhyme
Much disputed master of the obscure
Much opposed disrupter of the order
Guess the experiment went wrong
Just because your style is different, won't mean it's gold
Such a working actor
Such an active wreck
"So I think I missed my chance" you foam
Cause you're ageing and your Oscar ain't yet home
Truth be told and lies be laid
Youth eternal, at long once and once again
Too late you find your life a bore
Turning it all back is irresponsible and wrong
Don't beat yourself, cause their ways don't match with yours
You just haven't found that thing to make you less alone
Isolated, mocked and wrongly painted
Bereft, crestfallen, hardly tainted

Why must your youness be so
Impeccably imperfect,
That I cannot write you justice;
Cannot conjure even a shell of you.

Ever the joker you dance
At the edges of my vision;
Remain uncapturable yet unforgettable,
As I feverishly, fervently fail to
Sketch the shape of you.
My love,
I would slit my wrists with a ballpoint pen,
If only the ink ran a truer colour of you.

Rivers stain paper and corners curl crisp;
My pen runs dry over and over.