The Book – ghosts

IMG_20180812_202447_846Writer’s block, blocking my brain, my thoughts, my creativity.

You, you are the cause for that I’m sure, board of it, of you, writing about you and about our love. Stuck looking back just so I can look forward. My project is a curse, therapy I never signed up for. Easy or so I thought, poems, memories, just put them in order and wrap it up ready to go, but no.

Repeat it, repeat it, relive it again and again. with every glance at these sheets of paper I’m back, in a flash I have my head on his chest, hands playing with chest hair, heart-shaped mole in sight in our home in the clouds, then I look up and his eyes are now blue, they were brown…wait, I look down and I’m stood on grass and a ball Is rolling my way, white tents around me and his blonde hair golden in the morning sun, my heart is warm and I’m falling towards the bed covered in white sheets, my eyes are closed and my arms around your small frame hold tighter than they could before, blonde hair fades to brown and the sound of the ocean floods my ears, I’m drunk, ice cream dripping down my hands and I feel your slender fingers lock into mine as we sit, content by the midnight waves.

You see for me there is no escape, the ghosts of my past may look upon me and think that all of this is easy but know that for me to delve into the past is like a prison sentence, to delve back into every mistake I’ve made and to relive all the wrongs done to me is a tough process. My poetry was written during the lifetimes spent with all of you, this poetry exists because of you, the best and the worst parts of both you and me.

It is exhausting.

Writer’s block, because of the ghosts I write about.

Ghosts on every page.

I need to bury this.

Take a break and unblock.

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