Writer’s Block

My words are barrentheir cracks run deepand nothing grows in such heathen debris I replaced structurewith dry blank verse (or what I tend to callnonsense by amateurs)Inspiration- you slut,are you in coffee houseswith ashen cigarette butts amid poet-sleeved blouses?Tell me you're not so literalor that you have a type-no choice for me but to belittlemyself…

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Dry not, my pen

Dry not, my pen, nor bite the dust before my time, you're the nepenthe to my agonies, the breath to my life. Dry not, my pen, nor leave me to fend for myself, your nib is my sword, your ink my solitary help. Dry not, my pen, nor grow weary of my imprint, I am…

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

I read somewhere that one should never sit to write without an idea of what one is going to; yet ever since that really young age, when I began letting my demons out in ink, I always found myself venturing out on the journey of words without a predetermined thought, or a preconceived destination, or…