Why have I stopped writing poetry?
Has the poetic side of me faded?
Have I lost the gentle, naïve beauty that
my poetic heart once possessed?
Each time I sit and attempt
To write my words down on paper,
I realize that I cannot any longer.
My hands grow weary,
And my fingers go numb,
The weight of my pen is impossible to bear.
For my belief in
the poetic nature of the mind—
Has been lost in the gripped fists
Ripped skin
Broken promises
Dry tears
And heavy pens lying on my bedroom floor.
There in that rubble of my poetic being
Lie those beliefs.
The ones I have lost.
I am not religious,
But I pray for something to believe in
So that I may write again.
