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Don't write because you want to say something. Write because you have something needing to be said.
I need to write about a boy and his mom and his mom doesn't know the boy because she doesn't know herself because her mom didn't know herself and the boy knows that his mom has an identity problem and does not want one himself. But by opening himself, unfolding, he has to close himself much from his mom, making her insecure, and him shameful.
I want so desperately to put in to words the way I feel about you, the true reasons I bury my head in the crook of your arm and inhale your scent, the beauty that slides right through my every other thought like glass when I catch your face at a certain angle. I could bleed slack nouns, regurgitate cliches, drip overused verbs, but you and I, us and the way you make me feel, are all too wonderful for that. The smell of you, your soap and your warm skin, is the most comforting thing I've ever experienced. When you snake your arms around me and I tilt my head against your chest, it truly feels like we're the only people in the world, and we're invincible, at that. I can barely describe these things. I can't describe them at all in the manner I'd like. You make me speechless, slack-jawed, my love for you and my desire to create beauty in reciprocation a stone in my throat, a thick arsenic tinged fog in my brain. I love you, and that's more than enough, but my muse stays away. She only seems to find me when I'm hurting. When my soul seems like the elastic has finally gone out, and it all crumples up in my abdomen, a torn, stained, over-stretched piece of scrap I can feel. My muse always comes around then. But now? I'm tongue tied, I've got writer's block, what have you. I love you, and that's more than enough, but this is frustrating. I always write little things, polishing and rearranging my imagery until I have something I'm proud of. I can't do that right now, and it hurts a little. Still, I'd rather love you and never write again.
I've found lately that instead of writing on ether, I go to the thoughtword I would have written under and read what other people have said, and somehow that makes me feel better. Even if their post has nothing to do with what I'm feeling, it seems to help. I'm sure writing my thoughts out would help too, but I can never seem to get them to come out right. So instead, I read the thoughts of others and take comfort in the fact that I'm not alone.
I am in desperate need to write something. I am on the brink of insanity. I keep hearing fragments of poetry, I line here a word there. It refuses to form together. Is it to much to ask for my brain to make one coherrent poem right now? They are so close to coming together but they are hiding from me. It's hiding from me. I need this poem to keep me (at least some what) attached to my life. Everything in me is screaming to detach completely. I need this.