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I want to write about loves lost
Or labours lived so long they law low
in satin graves.

I want to write about far off wars,
And their distant effects. The muffled sound of
Rifles, insulting my ears,
grazing my fears.
In a blithering display of apathy.

I want to write of the sunrise,
And the sunset and the clouds which mask it
Like a child on Halloween.
It's a promise of days to come.
Like the prospect of the old lady
on the corner of the street
Who lives with her cats,
and the sweets she gives.

I want to write of my futures.
My possibilities. The results of my inquiries
To life, love and the lament of the loss of both
Like a brother. Asleep to soon.
Embraced by his belief.
A god, his cocoon.

I want to write of my Inspirations.
The songs of Bob Dylan,
The soul of John Frusciante
And the fever of Simon Neil,
Who taught me to take the pieces
of my puzzled life,
And build them up to the sky.
To build them high enough to stop
fearing death, and embrace life.
Because you shouldn't expect me to die.

I want to write about the rhythm of the drum,
Which follows the rhythm of my tongue
As I create the veritable commotion
That comes with this poetry in motion.
How one day, when the skies seem less grey,
And the days seems longer,
My voice will be stronger and rise up to say
Who I am, what I was and who I will be;
I raise my fist and my tongue
To become not one who stays in the herd.
I'll have hollered and I'll have sung
To be one who was heard above the herd.
And from this trap, I'd be sprung.

I want to write about you.
That faceless beauty I am yet to meet.
The wonder I am yet to greet.
My muse, mistress, madame, or my maker.
The one I know is for me, waiting out out there,
With baited breath, Long hair,
waiting, creating, staying safe
and preventing yourself for hating me,
For my procrastination.

I want to write about me.
My childhood, my beliefs and fears,
And how they shaped me,
as the years followed years and years
Until I leave my home for a second time.
To a place I can surely call mine.
My place of study, love and rhyme,
A place I can be alone, inside.

I want to write about other worlds.
With other girls
Who know my name.
Where the wind is music
and the air stays the same,
But is more refreshing, better tasting.
Where time is not for wasting,
It's for living, writing, creating or breaking.
Whatever your vocation, this vacation has station for you.
Where the opportunity is yours for the taking.

I want to write about nothing.