sometimes I feel
as if the fountain of ideas
has run dry
like every poem, movie, book, song
is in one way or another
the same as another one
is it possible?
have we reached our peak?
will there ever be anything new?
fresh?
even this poem I am writing now
is it just recycled material?

I stare through a plane of distortion
as a calm anxiety engulfs me,
numbing every sensation
until everything else is a blank nothing.

It hurts to know that I once shone,
emitting a harsh radiance, like the sun.
they used to avert their fragile corneas
from my invasive rays but now...

I am a blank nothing.

surrounded by others
surrounded by love
yet always
always
alone
- p. winter

I shouldn't be frustrated.
I should not be mad.

But something inside me,
Tells me I am.

I've denied the feeling,
Whatever it is.

To try and be happy.
Shall I begin?

You met up with her,
You guys are just friends.

I trust your decisions,
To my very ends.

But something inside me,
Crawls to my head.

Starts complaining,
A small shallowly beg.

Get out I will say,
Every time!

But it tells me.
That you're not only mine?!

This creature comes,
Quite often I believe.

I goes by a name,
Jealousy.

But that's not the only name,
It goes by so many.

The green eyed like grass,
Somethimes even envy.

I despise it greatly,
If only I could see.

That this creature or....feeling,
Is a part...of me.