I cant write anymore

I cant write anymore

I have no story

I have no sense...or nonsense

I have no miracles

to let me flood words

I cant write anymore

the laanguage of time

or the metaphores of crime

about my love,

about his love

and my love

that climbs flavors of the skies

about my dreams

the ones that scream

for me to make them come true

out of the blue

I cant write anymore

about myself, my family, my life

about my body, my image , my creations of imaginated limes of bitter fury

about my anger or pain

everything is melted in todays rain

of a hundred years

about the streets that shine mirrors

or the trains that take me into zones

or the planes that lift me into the wafers of the clouds

and hold me into cushioned tears

about anything or anyone

I

cant

write

any

more

about

you

about me

about what I want to do

and why I cant do it

and how it makes me feel mad and bad

and stupid

my sympathy that is fattening and saddening

and tiring to take everyday

why this has to stop and that has to start

and this has to begin and that has to end

what I should defend

or mend so that my soul may once more pick up the diamond coal pieces

my species of emotion

I cant write anymore about them

my crude raw feelings that once used to glitter like emeralds cut outs of my heart

and light my life

I can only try contain them now

so they dont consume me

inside out

silently

without writing anymore