Whomped

Like a cave I start to stand vacant

empty inside but all I do is kick ass.

Standing there, open, ready for treasure

maybe adventurers to swallow hole

fucking bears making their home inside

hell no, got to kick them out all the time.

The light you bring from day to day,

always consistent, even when skies are gray.

The result of years of pent up self expression,

I bleed onto the paper,

not blood, but ink. Words. 

Or maybe that was a time I needed to tell myself something.

The time is passing, but here I sit. 

I have images in my head,

fantastic pictures to be drawn and seen

but can I draw them?

I attempt, poorly. 

Words tell a more complex tale, don't they?

They say a picture tells a thousand words, but do a thousand pictures even begin to say one word?

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I'm pretty sure these are different poems. I wrote them on a word file a while ago, but I can't really remember why. My brain is in a strange state right now.