I'm often plagued by writer's block and my remedy to it is to stop. I don't force myself to write; instead I go and do things, go about my day or days, which might lead into weeks and I experience life as it passes and sometimes small moments or conversations catch my attention and they inspire me to write and others, feelings and emotions erupt that need to be released. I don't agonize or fret, I just continue living because to me life is what feeds my need to write and somethings just can't be put into words until they've had time to steep and marinate in the gumbo'ed mess that is sometimes my life.

a constant murmur,

grows into a cacophony,

ringing, blaring, screaming;

eyes tightly shut,

hands cover the ears

to let in silence.

I'm too in my head, never quite stepping out and seeing reality as it plays out in real time. it's like watching the world pass by in recorded documents, of words and scenes, photos; a snapshot of moments past too busy, too preoccupied with insecurities and anxieties about things yet to come to enjoy the present moment. happiness feels elusive because I'm constantly on a spiral to reach the bottom, grasping at wisps of air with the scent long gone, half lived life, moments gone. wasted.

awash in a world of florescent lights, watching the world tick away in passive aggressive emails and answering meaningless phone calls from a man in an office, sitting bleary eyed in front of a screen until the light drains from the sky and all that's left is to go home only to repeat the same agony the next day. bullshit jobs.

sunset hills

erupt in laughter

as the girl walked

into the horizon

and

swallowed the sun

golden fields of wheat dancing in the wind as you rush past it in a blur, the hazy blue of the everlasting sky kisses the earth with its tender lips; plump clouds fill the openness with generosity, a show for the eyes, magic for the mind, imagination abounds and expands like the universe, waiting, when you see the past in dreams of sparks and explosions, blazing and fierce, majestic, eternal. the sun sets behind the wooden chapel and the night blankets the world into a vision of indigo and dark. soothing wind runs its cool fingers through your hair and tingles run down your spine. glowing windows and the dirt path that always leads to the door, opening wide it swallows you whole, wrapping you in its embrace welcoming you home.

silver glades shrouded

in mist, the air is heavy

a crack in the sky

through beaded windows

a dance of umbrellas in

hues of reds and blues

the petals fell as

the rain fell in sheets, lightning

lit the pink petals

running and leaping

but unable to avoid

can't outrun the rain