lately,
everytime i put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard),
the ink of expression runs dry
abruptly-
like a fuse, blowing out,
suddenly-
in the night,
and all that remains is the whisper of the
wind.

dfgdfdfggddfgdfgdfgdwrwer
fgdfgdfgfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdf
ffdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgsf
gdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfgdfg
dfgdfgdfgjdfgjdfgdjfgfgjdfgdf
gdfgdfgd
fcbvbr
geeriterthjfgdfg
fgdfgjdfghcbncvbn
dfgdfgjcvbncb
cvbcvbc
cbcvb
cvbcvb
cvb
v
vcvb
cv
c

a torrent of nothing for a mountain of nobody.

the menagerie in his mind chattered
with only the rationality of society
sealing them in

thoughts
like exotic animals of yore
raw and untamed
with no place to go but out

the ink of expression
run dry
he’s slowly
slowly
driven
mad.

“Everything changes, but nothing is truly lost”

Morpheus, Neil Gaiman’s Sandman

You cannot tell from appearances how things will go. Sometimes imagination makes things out far worse than they are; yet without imagination not much can be done. Those people who are imaginative see many more dangers than perhaps exist; certainly many more than will happen; but then they must also pray to be given that extra courage to carry this far-reaching imagination. But for everyone, surely, what we have gone through in this period – I am addressing myself to the School – surely from this period of ten months this is the lesson: never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never-in nothing, great or small, large or petty – never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.

Winston Churchill, Harrow School, October 29, 1941

This alabaster jar
Is all i have of worth
I break it at your feet, lord
It’s less than you deserve
You’re far more beautiful
More precious than the oil
The sum of my desires
And the fullness of my joy!

he sang to an empty room-
full of hope,
full of joy,
full of Him.

i took the world into me, rearranged it, and sent it back out as a question: “do you like me?”

- from Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

They were blue,

The blue of the unsullied sky of yore,
the blue of unattained barony,
the blue of loyalty and truth.

They were blue,

the ironic blue of lust,
the blue of the scourging flame,
the blue of the scorching star.

They were blue,
and then they were gone,
back into the sea of the faceless ones.

And I was alone.

he sits there, waiting. waiting.

on the corner of 25th and 8, his overcoat well-worn with the wisdom
of yesterday’s scraps and today’s dew.

guitar in hand – out of tune – strumming along to a song only
he remembers.

silhouettes pass him by, flashes of the rainbow, desaturated in
the rain-sent gloom.

and he sits there, waiting. waiting. waiting on the world to change.

he asked, as the numbness from his recent retrenchment wore off and brutal reality came to bear.