[Poem] Moving

I can’t go back,
What that place does to you…
It doesn’t fit me,
Or I don’t fit it

I don’t want to see her again,
Memories of her don’t fit right…
She went through the pains,
I felt them, every one

I won’t let it happen,
She’ll not claim me…
But if I win the fight,
What then… ?

There’s no reason
No rhyme
I’m broken
Lost

[Thoughts] Life irritates art

As those of you who read this regularly will know, I use sources of angst in my life as inspiration for most of my poems. It seems, though, that an over abundance of said angst causes an over abundance of the so-called writer's block. I appear to be suffering from a whole heap of stuff and nonsense, rendering all artistic thought stuff and nonsense along with it.

I have written the odd poem or two in my absence, but they will remain, for the time being, locked away in the depths of my back-up discs. The next one I share with you has an extraordinary amount of baggage behind it, none of which, I fear, is evident in the poem itself. C'est la vie, as they say.

On with the show!