every now and then my pen runs dry.
i forget how to swallow the words of others, as if any thought can be truly organic.
why isn’t there a farmer’s market for ingenuity?
how much to buy a phrase that could finally satisfy me,
a phrase that would finally make me stop after years and years of
nomadic poetry tried to string together meaningless events into a story
that actually made sense?

every now and then,
my pen runs
dry.
i spit all of my words out in search of answers to
questions i shouldn’t ask.
i was parched.
i have so long been parched.

one day
i will set my pen down
and one day
i will look up to the sky in this desert of my own creation
and i will stop trying to put the pieces together
( there are none that fit)
i will close my eyes
and let the rain fall.

Pain makes people wage a storm.
Most would release the beast in any form
without hesitation, without fear;
without minding the damage,
they wouldn't even mind the effect they manage.

As they release their storm,
they thought they could also release their pain;
but little do they know,
that they actually pass on the pain.
Instead of having it ended,
it continues to grow;
resurrecting, from one to another soul.

But mine is different--pain makes me silent.
There's this huge hole within my soul
which I couldn't even detect.
There's this heavy atmosphere
that prevents me from breathing.
I would like to wage a storm, but I couldn't.
I would like to release my pain, but I couldn't.
All that I could do is feel it.
Endure it.
Suffer from it.

Silence is all that I could offer the world;
not a storm, not a beast, or anything
that would cause some damage to others,
but silence that only brings damage to myself.

At least I wouldn't be able to hurt others;
the pain would just end within me.
Or so I thought it would end.

The birds fall from the sky.
My eyes are dry.
The buildings collapse on top of me.
My eyes are dry.
I realize I cannot cry.
My eyes remain dry.
I let out a sigh.
Still, my eyes are dry.
I realize you're going to die.
My eyes want to, but they cannot cry.

I'll remember the time,
When your words and smile,
Made me new.

It makes my chest sink,
In agony of what could have been.
A love I wanted to give,
That fell, pointlessly.

I still fell for her,
Even when she told me not to.

I'll remember the time,
When the words that escaped my lips,
felt like the perfect me.
Now only letters remind me of her voice,
Poetry for me.

When every word I used was for her,
And they ran out.
A drift of space,
A burning drought.

I'll remember the time,
When I told myself to stop writing about you.

Your bliss turns to blues.
You're in the bottom
but now you know
your only way is up.

Your warmth turns to drought.
You can pour gasoline
in the dying fire inside of you
to feel warm again.

Your love turns to lost.
You may have lost in love
but in the first place,
you found it.

They say, the only thing
that is constant is change.
But can bliss, warmth, and love
be constant........ for a change?

The well of poetry is dry
And the oasis
Who was once blooming around
Dead

Where is the rain?
At least the soft wind
The brings hopes of verses

Where is the night
That at least
Cools the burning sands
Of thoughts

Lost in the desert...
Of poemless dreams