soul apart- lost my will to write

With no inspiration to write he is doomHe will do anything to make one more master pieceEven if was compromising with the devilThen here he comes again with eyes to deceiveAnd whispers in his ear you never win this challengeYou don’t need to do this, you'll manageI'll open the secret book of Shakespeare if I can have you soulA compromise between the two, developed into a deal Then he realized…He had given he’s soul the soul to writeI am just a corpse without motivation, a soul in pieceThen he remembers a day…Then he fought without his soulBut with his heartIn the mists of rained down darken streetsShadow and shape suggested beingThe demons he’s foughtWith new hope but not without doubt…His hand starts to shakeEffort and time taking its tollwith my heart and pen he writes to reclaim his soulan idea of a beautiful poem enough to stench hell's hole Inking and spilling in this instrument to writeMany line many mistakeIncomplete sentencesThat doesn’t make a paragraphLetters not making any wordsAnd words not making a verseWith out his soul he has Fallen… But he set his mind into a place of serenityAs he decides to pick a color of ink to write withAnd this is what he wrote…. Black Ink, Red Ink, Blue InkI write with pen and paper all these poems and love storiesto fill my heart with experiences I’ve never feltblack ink is therapy for the heart and medicine for the mindred ink is to express my rage and frustrationit’s burning embers melt the iceit numbs the addiction of nicotineit removes memories of previous convictionslines of emotion leave traces of intentions to fightwith words that play out with a fluidity as I writesaddened by my inability to express myself of these crazed thoughtsmy dampened sleeves used to clear my double vision tearsSo I write with pen and paper to fight these temptationstemptations to go back to the haunting streets and make a habitual drop of cocainewrong doings cause a negative effect, leaving me insane with schizophrenia, insomnia, and the anxiety attacks I must live with nowmemories and nightmares of when my guns were firedgo ahead laugh at me now! You’re right I am fuckin’ crazyyou guys were right, my head is lost amidst the gun powder cloudsbut it feels good to write, that’s why I’m up here shining with wordsno need to fight the physical fight now, I fight a spiritual fightno more absurd arguments over block territories or letting my anger burst out loudbecause now I fight a spiritual fight With pen and paper in my hand and chin on my bleeding palmsintuitive I may look, its not hard to witnessbut it wasn’t always like this when my life was so calmwith Jesus he taught me to forgive my Dad for never being therehis words taught me how to love my myself and my Momso now it’s up to me to forgive myself now so I write with pen and paperI express my love to this worldI guess I have always had been a writer, I just didn’t know howBack then I chose to write my life with my tears as inkI feared I may have finally lost all grip black ink expresses the dead soul of my past when I have…Fallin... in agonies grip due to my rage of darken heartAlienated ...the innocent by standers with crack cocaineLust... over the body of an friends wife and torn a family apartLied ...and deceive the unfortunant of their little gainsIntruded... in the homes of monks for a couple of gold chainsNeglected... my first born to be love by his own fatherred ink to express my anger at the revenge I carried outbut from now on it is blue I usebecause now I write for peaceso that’s why I write…