When I feel like I’m blocked
I have to slow down and think
I begin to write a free prose
and then begin the thing I do,
and what relieves my pain.
Writing to release my soul back on this fucking train.
Wish I could talk to you. I do this for me.
And sometimes for you.
I can’t lie, I know I don’t live a private life.
I put each word I write on my website,
and release it all on the mic.
But really this is my only therapy,
from the blank spaces in my mind.
I like to rhyme in my spare time.
And every time I write,
so basically I do this every night.
And by far I am not the brightest.
I am not even smart.
I’m just a poet.
I’m a writer, a blank page is my canvas.
And I fill it with lies, saying I’m the best at this,
when cuts on my wrists say something different.
Please forgive me, this is my only outlet.
And all the ink in this pen can’t forget the shit I deal with.
The world is a psyche ward.
Taking pills to numb your living
To rev your engine.
Well, taking meds cause you have to isn’t the same
You get weeded, because you need it,
cause it makes you feel real
not the weakness.
Then there is me who takes meds to go to bed
to calm my head
half alive, half dead, half a ghost
Just another empty suit in a cubicle
Just another person, in the doctors chair.
Just another poem from a go-no-where poet, who don’t care.
Just another Jagged Thought