write more poetry

the poem I wrote before this one had been after about 4 months of writer’s block. It seems harder nowadays to push myself to write because I’m not sure where my muse is or I have something to say but not sure how I want to say it or destroy it right after writing it. anyway—new poem.

Being Right Doesn’t Have Anything To Do With It

There’s a voice in the back of my head
And she always has something to say
There’s a voice in the back of my head
And she vocalizes her views every day
Her pains and woes and sorrows
Her doubts and misunderstandings

There’s a voice in the back of my head
And she seems ridiculously demanding
There’s a voice in the back of my head
And she fights the fight standing
Her battles and slashes and wounds
Her cries and dreams in cracked marble tombs

There’s a voice in the back of my head
And she pauses quietly for a second
There’s a voice in the back of my head
And she always comes back for seconds

Little blue butterfly fly—
Into the blue sea
beyond the clouds on blue sky.

Little azure butterfly—
Go past the waters
towards the depths of azure air.

Little cobalt butterfly—
Sip from blue roses
before the ultramarine.

Little royal butterfly—
Onto your castle
Upon turquoise atmosphere.

Little blue butterfly—
Why so very sad
In the dark depressing world?

They stand behind you,
Watching your every move.

What do they do
When we turn away
Without eyes in our backs,
Or the backs of our heads
We cannot keep an eye on them.

They stand behind you,
Watching your every move.

Who we call “friends”:
The ones who love us, support us,
Indulge our whims to
a ridiculous apex where
We must keep an eye on them.

They stand behind you,
Watching your every move.

When shall we be the ones
To stop leaning, to sneak
Around to the rear,
And take them by surprise as
We forever keep, both eyes on them.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
after all that’s been said
I don’t know what I saw in you.

Roses have petals
Violets do too
the shiny sleek metals
beat the shit out of you.

A pure white mask
over a dirty face
who can tell
What’s real anymore?
though it is made of paper
more fake than foolery
no one dares remove it
for fear of what it hides:
the Truth.

White on one side
smooth like cream
green and ribbed
when flipped over
gummy, chewy
a tasty distraction
so my tongue does not betray me.

Tell me you lie
Tell me you smile
Tell me you cry
Tell me how your day was
Tell me how to fix it
Tell me how you live
Tell me where you want to go
Tell me how to get there
Tell me how you plan to get there
Tell me if we’ll go again someday
Tell me you love me
Tell me you always will
Tell me you always have
Tell me why
Tell me who you are
Tell me nothing
Tell me what I want to know
Tell me what you want me to know
Tell me what you want to say
Tell me you’re happy
Tell me you lie.

A poem a day keeps the writer’s block at bay.