I got writers block.
words blotched out of space and time.
never come to mind.
it's the curse of poets.
the nightmare feasting hungrily on the mind.
inspiration I linger just to find.
a word.
a muse.
a fuckin contradiction.
a condemned idea to conceive.
I look to the stars.
I look to hell itself.
buried myself in endless knowledge.
and there was nothing left.
looking for a spark.
a presence of divinity.
yet I wrote for only love.
a warmness.
a weakness.
something as trivial as love.
softness that laid in my bed.
and vanished at dawn.
feelings of emptiness I felt as they were gone.
but the words they plagued my nightmares.
they swallowed whole my dreams.
till all I could think about was you and me.
so I wrote.
such fire burning inside me.
burning at the ends like a cigarette.
just to feel the heat.
dreams of smoke and mirrors.
a undying fame.
that shined in the gleam in my eyes.
countless ballads of poetry.
a small audience I confide.
no views.
people often dread my art.
people don't understand the artist.
so they just tear the canvas apart.
wanting heaven.
bringing hell.
but poetry is my only escape.
I'm a mad writer.
obsessing over cake.
yet I fell in love with the gift of word.
poetry was it's beautiful mistake.
being a angel.
but I was a incubus to some.
falling for the taste of flesh.
burning within.
loving the words falling out like a beautiful song.
as readers feast on nothing but what I did wrong.
never wanting to look behind the mask.
a masterpiece I conceived it's been so long.
©
D