Every sunset is one that bleeds within
my perception, I don't no why its
just like seeing my syllables dissipate
into a  hue of clarity. I'm a pill away from
ending it, to find its different in my mind.

My collected conciseness that rises luminous,
but then dissolving as its brightness
falls into a void of white stones descending
into the nothingness inside of me.  
I'm close to something beyond my perception.

I'm not linguistically challenged,
but I'm one pill away from ending
it. I've collected my memories upon
this discoloured white, and its just
a button from fading to nullity.

i have experienced writer’s block before,
but not like this...
not when i’ve forgotten the meaning of every word that comes to mind,
every word except one: you

you are by far the worst thing that has happened to my poetry
because, before, i could write about my sadness,
about how the world was closing in on me,
but you stood in the way of that
almost as if you were saying 'no, darling, let me show you something new.'
so you showed me the world in a new light,
and suddenly it felt so big i did not know how to deal with it;
could not find the words to describe what i was feeling,
could not find the words.

in the weeks that we have been together,
my sadness became dormant.
sometimes,
sometimes it still erupts out of me;
the hot lava of my tears washing away any hope i had had left.
but even in those moments
you have been there,
there for the repercussion,
for the mending,
there for me.

Now all i can write about is you, you are the only thing that makes sense in my lines,
like, you belong there, you were made to be my inspiration.
around you, my verses and phrases dance, tangle themselves in your eyelashes,
curl themselves around your legs
a beautiful revelation of purpose.
until it doesn’t make sense anymore
and then i am stuck again
stuck in the spaces between the words that adore you so
but to them, i am a prisoner, forbidden from venturing out into the world of rhyme schemes and verses

this is what has been happening to me since you’ve left

and let me tell you,
the day you left i was
preparing myself for a novel
filled with wit and conversation
and joy
but now i can hardly find a single line
that doesn’t call out your name

*how could i ever forget about the way you hurt me
if you are all my writing remembers?

Why is poetry so easy to write
when you're really really sad?
Boy when the tears they come again
my muse he will be glad,

Becuz today I'm not that way at all,
well I'm feeling only happy,
so the muse he's gone elusive still,
an my writing rather sappy,

But I will write again I'm sure,
still I pray he let me be,
I want to be a poet true,
though one who's heart is free.
.

Ma Cherie © 2017

I see you drivin'
'round town with the girl I love
and I'm like haiku

I don’t face my problems.
I put them in a box, lock it, and throw away the key
This is just the way life works
We’ve all got to throw way our boxes
In order to make room for more
Because in this world, baby
The problems never end
Sometimes people just run out of room
And what happens when you run out of room?
Society runs out of room for you

You can't hurt me
If I can't hear you

Write it all down. The way you feel when you wake up on a rainy Saturday morning, the howling thunder of a summer storm, how your heart races like hurricane winds at the simple thought of tomorrow. Write about your best friend's laugh at three in the morning and how blissful it is to have found a hand that squeezes yours back. Write when you feel as if your soul is perched at the very top of a mountain, and when it sinks to the deepest part of your mind's treacherous oceans. Write when your heart is dancing like a ballerina spinning in a white tutu. Write when it is still. Quiet. Lost. Write when you've fallen in love, when you've lost at a cruel game, when you fall asleep wanting to erase every memory you've ever experienced, like the songs you cried to when you were thirteen and swore you were falling apart. Write it all down, the bright colors that melt into fond afternoons, the bittersweet tastes, the textures that scar, the aches and pains. Write when words can no longer express what exists inside of you. Do it anyway. That is what love is.

blocked, days now and frustrated as hell
how tiring to pour so effortlessly for months
and then the desert comes through pulling
everything from the scape.
sure, there's blooming going on
and the flowers out front are red and yellow
the crepes are starting to burst
and the grass is green, but my words keep dying.

cancer maybe, eating the page as if it were a white blood cell
nothing but black mire in its path and wasted time.
the screen laughs of course, and i grow angrier, my time taxed.
lunch hours dry as a bone. admin watching and me keeping silent
about my passion.
what will it take? i am not van gogh and don't have the muse
for which to segment.
maybe time, that old benefactor, so patient, he passes and eventually
the words reappear, chasing a black cloud of darkness.
why then? that is maybe where it lies, the truth.
why when things are at their darkest am i so quick to spill?
of course what comes out is often unsavory and sour,
but
the souls eat that up.
you're dark they say, and i laugh, because they know nothing.
so when then? when shall i expect their hardy return?
i guess to hold tight is my only choice. transitions everywhere
literally and figuratively. summer itself bringing professional shift.
earlier days brought round and sunrises rushed, life constraints.
i'll wait though, be patient, as i've been for so long now, howling
only occasionally.