I don't know how to put my words down with ink and script.
It's like my pen has all run dry, it's suddenly tight-lipped.
I try to make me literate, to tell you how I feel.
It's like my brain is caged from you, a cage of wicked steel.
I've tried to let my tongue run free to tell you all I can.
It's almost like something took hold and off with tongue it ran.
It's hard to say just what I mean when words just aren't enough.
When every draft seems so damn bad, I know I've tried it rough.
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There is so much poetry running through my veins screaming for attention exclaiming, write me write me write me down.
I feel like I'm falling. Drowning in despair. The people I once cared about. Are no longer standing there. After viciousness and attacks. We all turn on each other. Despite the fact as writers.
Staring at this empty page. It's same-width lines a paper cage. So many thoughts I know are there, But all I do is sigh and stare. Wishing I could write and write, Instead the page looks on with...
I don't think in music. I don't think in lines. I don't think in canvases. No. I think in rhymes. I don't speak in eloquence. I don't speak in prose. I don't speak in coloured tongue.
I'm sitting here Trying to write But the words won't flow This just isn't right What could I say See, want, hear I've got writers block Love, death, fear Most days I could say anything Complete it...
My poems are just doodlewords, They don't take long to write. I observe the world around me, By ear, by nose or sight. By then my brain has started, To note a line or two.
All I see is anger Writhing in my head Burning, churning Hot, bright red You wanted Poetry. Come along You may just see I'll show you Everything I've got Will you take it. Maybe not.
My poems are thoughts. That come from my mind. Some of them dirty. Some can be kind. I can write fiction. Or even the truth. My sexual poems. Go through the roof. Sometimes you won't like.
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