Here comes another
classic case of
writer's block.
**** soft,
I spew
across the
white pages.
Maybe age is
catching up
with me.
Time has been
a friend,
but I'm only as
good as my last poem.
I long for the days
when songs filled
my heart, where every
part of me smelled
the rain and the
wet dogs, and the
streets of Spain.
The pain was always
fodder, the joy, the sadness
the madness of love and
*** and passion.
The rancid anger and rage
became the words of
a sage when I broke
out the notebook.

Not tonight though,
I will wait for the
******* and the blood
to simmer in
the red dot on the
white snow.
Patiently waiting for
the hemorrhaging of
the soul.

Painting glossy images of life and
laughter
sitting near the window thinking about what has gone and what could have happened;

folded hands in prayers restless minds over sleepless nights counting stars over wishes to push the button~ renew, restart and rebuild.

Alarm rings to wake us from unsettling nightmares
Chores and stern face to pursue for bills await and responsibility to ensue.

When the night crawls in
the cyclic pain begins.

Writing to me is harsh and senseless
Whenever in light of day
I pick up the words
And scorch the paper
Forcefully

Writing to me is painful
It wanders within me
As an idealistic thought
Something I wish
To master

Writing is sweet and chilly
As a crisp december evening
By the trees
A hot drink melting snow where it sits
Beside me

Writing is in my mind
At all times
I believe
Even if it does not make itself known
in actual lettering

A moment of clarity
Stifled creativity plaguing my sanity.

Negativity’s rhyme scheme
Always alters the atmosphere.
Writer’s block obscures a slighted right hemisphere.

The brain’s left side is logical, factual
The right side intuitive and creative,
My brain marches - left, right, left, right
All over ink stains and blank spaces.

Navigating these ruts requires emotional dexterity
and my creative muscles have been stiff
So, it’s difficult to write with sincerity.

I can’t just churn it out while I’m burning out
Maybe I should try, I can be quite cynical
Not all creative blocks are easy to lift
Mine weighs one hundred and seventy odd syllables.

Words dived inside my mind. Emotions flow in rhythmic waves
as diluted thoughts
submerging the pages and verses drenched in melodic verse.
Passion outpour
Submerged myself drowned in inspiration.

As I drift into a lyrical sea and ink drips from my pen.
#RitzWrites

You sit on your porch swing, miles away
Making shapes out of streetlights
Dancing in the dark
Looking for remnants of a red sun
Chasing after silver moonlight
A pen in your hand
Poetry on your tongue
But the wind catches sight of you,
Carrying the words away  
And everything remains unspoken

The blank sheet stares at you
   just your perception

That it's your foe
   a misconception

It's your partner, your friend --
   enfolds your verse in love

Breathe deeply... exhale
   your words dance above