Untitled II

Stop me if you've heard this before
but I feel this feeling fleeting,
running opposite me
to lands unknown
where lost dreams go to die.
Why are words so fickle, leaving at the lightest touch,
the barest hint of anything new.
A world, undiscovered,
lies within a place I can reach only when I am most bare.
My purest form of self,
mewling and screaming,
pulls from me this insatiable insanity.
Yet with the slightest digression my sleeves roll themselves down
and it's gone again.
I am lost into reality like some suited being,
honking at the other monkeys in futile attempts to make up for lost time.
Was it worth it?
Is that loss of captivation worth an ounce of conversation?
Bring me back to that place.
I want to feel the pen warming between my fingers again.
That smooth ink feel on dead, life-giving friends.
Is this the closest I can get to holiness?
♠ ♠ ♠
I had begun a poem about death and then said something to my friend, and in that instant, it was gone. So I took myself away from everything and sat in front of my notebook until this happened. I'm not sure it came from me, if that makes sense. Anyway, it's about writer's block and a perception of reality that's lost when you're going about your day to day.