bricks and blood and broken people.

it's like a mountain sitting on my brain

a dam that's clogging the river, that runs out back, of creativity

covering the crosswalks of an eternal dreamer.

i call it writer's block brick (not block).

it's not the kind of brick you would use to build a house

but the kind that you would use to draw pictures on the sidewalk with the crumbled pieces when you don't have any chalk

the kind that you take pictures of because they're old and faded like my broken past 

(but please don't take pictures of that)

the kind that surround my slightly beating, battered heart

a secret garden.

the kind that hide the love, the war and the burnt lungs.

you knocked on the bricks of my heart

and they never knock back

but for you they did

and it hurt like hell

like all of my insides shook and crumbled as the walls went down

and i could hear the sound, it was the sound of me breaking.

and you came in

scratching at my heart

and leaving scars where you touched.

and i left little pieces of myself where i went...

it's easier to feel without them.

and when the silence comes, all i want is to sleep to the sound of your heartbeat next to mine

because for a moment i thought i felt my soul smile.

the bricks broke.

and the silence came.

and the sounds died.

and my heart stopped breathing...