I am out of inspiration;
I am out of things to write.
Every time I pick the pen up,
It’s as if to start a fight.
Between conscious and unconscious;
Between heart and brain and soul.
The mind wishes to expunge.
The heart wishes to control.
And between all these confusions,
Lies a hidden, deeper way.
That has made me numb and frozen.
And left nothing more to say.
I know the old safe patterns.
Writing of memories; pain; and loss.
These stories echo timeless,
And are easy to get across.
But they don’t explore the labyrinth
that is tangled up inside
those are worthwhile masterpieces
though untested and untried
So I linger over paper,
Hoping to write what I now see;
Carve a path of understanding,
into the heart of me.