I'm not writing poems like I used to,

getting stuck on one syllable again.

Sonnets and songs would be my dream come true.

If I could just stop, breathe in and pretend,

that I'm actually doing something good.

My brain does not do what you think it should.

But why do I think that's such a bad thing?

It's not like I have to comply with bells,

pass the sugared black coffee and bee stings.

Give me wings, only to fall down my well. 

Sonnets and songs will be my dream come true,

once I drain my lungs of this dark blue goo. 

Tell me my conjured up friends, what's the news?

Have they found a cure for writer's block yet?

Let me go back to not having these blues,

add this to my self deprecation set.

Why must I question every choice I make?

Am I just one big repulsive mistake?

Probably so, or probably not, and

whose to say I'm truly falling apart,

but me? Nobody's giving out demands.

I'm just messy, lonely, depressed blue goo,

writing awkward sonnets and songs, for you.