It's been ten days since I've written, and I am stumbling
on empty words to fill my pages once again.
I don't know if I am just blocking the world, or
what is happening.... but I really am having a hard time.

Perhaps it's because life is busy again
- too busy to enjoy - to listen, and think,
and to have no interruptions for beauty.
Perhaps it because the one I love doesn't appreciate
words - or poetry, so I find it hard to be inspired.

Maybe it's because I can't think of something
beautiful to write - but only words of sadness and desperation
- words that leave a reader lost.

I don't know the reason, but I am jumbled and stuck.
I just wanted those of you who read to know
why the blog has been lifeless.

Thanks for reading,

Jackie

Lost

Sometimes I crave your freedom -
your ability to turn words into
symmetry,
fling yourself into blank paper
and cover it with
nostalgic memories.

I have become a hostage
in my own head,

unable to create
unable to purify
this morbid existence.

While you wrap yourself
around syllables of poetic bliss,

I fill up my pages with
chaos –
cloudy thoughts that
steal beauty
and force darkness.

I want to bite from that stillness

corrupt my head

with your sunshine

and silence.

Confinement

You say you cannot stay,
unwilling or afraid.

I never know with you...

Settle down in these sheets,
and rest your head a minute.

Just try to breathe.

I can prepare a sonnet in my head,
but you only want me in this bed.

The stillness of poetry is unsettling.

You say you cannot think abstractly,
only in linear space
where two bodies merge
and language is useless.

I imagine a broken funnel between us
where I spill the words effortlessly
and they disappear somewhere near reason
and insanity.

Dropped like a sharp C on your broken piano.

You say you want to leave -
that these thoughts are too deep.

My mouth just bleeds
words like seeds.

Let me go then
Let me be the one
to solidify my needs.

Absolut

Swaying softly in the music
the drunk takes a bow

wrapping around his words
with slurred annoyance.

Seeking to end it all,
he continues to babble
incoherently

about life and possibilities.

The woman
across the table ridicules:

the poor man’s sorrow is another
man’s laughter.

We are stuck in time
which doesn’t exist.

He is stuck in a moment
captured by Vodka
hoping that someone will
take him home and let
him pour out his misery.