It seems every time I come here to write, my mind goes completely blank. I sit here, looking at the screen, expecting the words to type themselves. Yet they do not come when I want them to. I sit here, wondering why I can't articulate what I want to say. The page is blank, and the cursor, the little blinking line, is mocking me. Each blink saying Write! Write! Write! You have written before, why can't you now? Have you lost it? Yet still the words won't come. The cursor is more than just a little blinking line. It is a wall that I must knock down, it is a dam that I must destroy to let the creative river run. But it seems once I bring down a couple bricks of the wall, and start to crack the dam, I can't stop. I find it very difficult. But ask yourself this, Why something natural from happening? I like to keep the river flowing as fast and powerful as possible. I try to keep my train of thought riding on the edges of derailment.

Someone was trying to tell me I was great.

Oh how I laughed. I lost my breathe for 3 minutes straight. Oh the hilarity of it, me? great? I don't think my feet tread the path of greatness. I'm not saying I have a low opinion of myself. I'm saying that my opinion of myself isn't that high. Words like great should be reserved to describe people who suffer from illnesses and disease which would normally leave them bed-ridden, but somehow they get up and put up a fuckin' fight for their lives. As if to get out of one's bed in the morning and actually accomplish things would be like staring into Death's pale eyes and spiting in his face. Half the battle of life is your attitude. That to me is great. Me, I am merely human. Aren't we all? Do our feet not touch the ground? Will we not die someday of our lives? Do we not sweat when we toil? Do we not bleed when we are cut? Do we not weep for our lost loved ones? If you answered no to these questions, then what are you?

Great, I think I am not, yet I do think I am me.

Here is some evidence that my creative mind has been working lately.

Ode to Nothing
There is:
no purpose to this,
nothing to be derived,
no thought.
This is:
merely a revision to a revision,
contradicting all the hypocrites,
a wasted life,
a wall of nothing that surrounds all.
All legacies, myths, gods, and beliefs will burn up
in a second.
Expectations and goals lost
in an instant.
So our lives will equal nothing in the end,
mere flyspecks in this existence,
memories amounting to zero,
and in that
freedom is found.

Such a river, Such a thought
This river of thought
flows from heart, mind, and soul
right down to its tributaries.
It washes up on a land
that is devoid and deserted
of grand and renowned things.
This body of ink
forges its own path.
From the water's depth,
comes different images.
In the shallow waters,
the bottom of the river is clear.
In the deeper spots,
the water is murky and obscured.
Those brave souls
will explore what is beneath the surface.
Its current changes like the moon,
slowly and subtly.
One day, it roars like a summer storm.
On another, it is quiet like a slight night breeze.
But no matter what pace the water runs
It never loses its strength
and never finds an end.

Control Castaway
Society is shackled
by the hands of
this minute yet titantic power.
Running our lives discreetly,
its every second twitches seizes us all.
We have lost control of
over this thing we created,
so we are slaves
and it is our master.
When we ask where it went
the answer simply put,
it slipped like sand through our fingers
and ever beyond our grasp

These are the three poems I decided to submit to that Navigating the Maze anthology thing, so yeah, there you have it.

I'm running on E.

Good Night.