another poem carved out of writer's block Sometimes I'm left cruelly in the dark
groping, wordless
not knowing meaning from meaningless
time-deprived, numbstruck
forsaken by my own inner voice
blinders on my inner eye
dream recollection drained down a black hole
this is one of those times
and it's scary, 'cause I don't know
how long this darkness will last.

You don't know when the words will come again
and until they do come freely
you will have to extract each one, one by one
until then, even one blank page feels
impossibly long
and each word seems intensely useless.  ¶ Sunday, April 24, 2005 0 Comments Links to this post

  [reflect] Sometimes what I write is too poignant, too close, too real, too revealing, so I just close the book and put it away. Then later I might come along and read what I've written and be ready to share it. Because I realize it's not just me, maybe. Maybe you have felt this way, too. This one's from September 6, 2003...

The things we do to remember
The things we do to forget
To get away, to get back there
To disconnect, to recollect
The things we do to reflect

The dreams that chase us around
Our innocence lost in a sound
A moment in time
Not yours and not mine
But something we shared
And now we will never go back there

No, we will never go back there
And even if we did
The places are hidden from us now

The things we do to capture
A little of that feeling
Of being young and wanting
Our youth is ever haunting

But dreams have strange beginnings
And never reveal their endings
You always wake up somewhere
And find yourself pretending

Remember who you were before
You had to be something else
Remember who you were before
You turned the tables on yourself

  ¶ Sunday, April 17, 2005 0 Comments Links to this post