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Honest Poem

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One night, notebook in hand, I allowed my self to sit outside.
I soaked up the atmosphere, but it didn't feel familiar.
I caught the direction of the wind,
tried to capture it in words, but couldn't.
I have been trying to figure out what's wrong with me.
The shades of the sky only amount to blue, birds sing so off beat.
I am trying to figure out why I cannot write, the way I used to.
When I do, the words don't hold their meanings the way lovers hold each other, the way they used to.
These night skies are cold, nothing more, but my mind does not turn them into similes.
I am trying to figure out why I am so uninspired.
There are no doctors, prescriptions, or dealers that can write my world natural again.
The cracks in the pavement here are man-made.
The angles of the buildings were planned,
The scratched paint was predestined.
I am worried that I do not know how to write in open structures.
I prayed for jailbreak, windy skies, distant crickets, and even those turkeys that annoy me when I am studying.
I feel like I am home, but home feels like words that go together.
I keep waiting for a manuscript invitation to the rest of my life, but let reality bring me to the place where it all began:
A class room, with horrid florescent lights, no windows, painted the picture of my current view.
I am trying to figure out why a subject and predicate would want to make a sentence.
Life has graciously taken responsibility for paragraphs,
chapters,
anthologies.
I don't recall being given a syllabus, or told how many units until I gain experience.
I assume it'll be somewhere between the clouds, cement, and the emptiness of my pen.
How many units do I have before I am broke,
broke,
broken just like my thoughts?
I want to write light in my poetry, but keep spelling it with the wrong definition.
How many clouds have to shift before the sun nudges me to a notebook?
I feel guilty for letting the moon smirk rainbows behind my back every night.
Just as I'm down on my thoughts, inspiration comes knocking on my first floor balcony by the name of Nick.
I crane my neck out of my words and
There is a girl with stolen stars in her eyes, says she needs him with her.
I shrug with the lack of her passion,
wondering if they actually care about each other.
I let them tango away, and invite a friend over to occupy my irrelevant time.
It was the first time she had seen Rent, and Angel had just died, and there was a knock on my glass door;
Nick had horrible timing.
I shrugged once again, looked the other way and he asked me
"Aye, yo, is this Rent?"
I nodded and looked at my friend, hoping I had given her enough time to dry her tears.
Again, he waltzed out of the room along side the girl with starry eyes.
I sat down, no longer uninspired, but quite the opposite.
It takes life to make inspiration come knocking on my suite sliding door.




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