Writer’s Block 2

Original Photography retrieved from unsplash.com by Eugene Chystiakov @eugenechystiakov

Trauma to my pen tip.


no, no, no.

See, we’ve done this before.


Sitting in the same spot hours upon hours

Paying homage to a life now gone.


As I ponder

on the logic of my nonsense.

How, I

vomit over hours of us talking of our youth: thus.

The blueprint began here.

And the truth is.

No one can invoke a host of notes from me, and hope to get the most from me; as we had.

My only battle, was spent battling

against the odds, to stand tall despite

my focus lost.


Now I mourn.

You’ve left me alone to roam weakly.

Seeking helplessly to retrieve what we had achieved

That we, as in team, split seam.

It just keeps happening. .

Now I can only dream of what used, to be.

War is what you make it out to be,

And the battles of my soul are a concrete example of the damage

that have hammered my life six feet deeper than the man above, or the one beneath me.

My eyes leaking:

and the residue acidic.

A reminder of the toxic life

I’ve laid to rest.

Still easily you hear my cries from beneath the tides of pain and iniquity

Hemorrhaging of black or blue.

Yet the true intent lies deep within

As an empty pen bleeds constantly

Upon wide ruled paper like a dear john letter

left incomplete.

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