i dont feel poetry anymore

july 30th 2020

i dont feel poetry anymore.

i dont feel the rush of euphoria and completion within anymore.

connecting the lines together, one after the other, so they form perfect nonsense.

i try to look inside, find something to hold onto and spatter it out on paper.

but nothing comes out.

i feel my skin, freckles on freckles. maybe something will come of that.

think. trees, mountains, rivers. that’s usually what i write about.

women, love, struggle, surviving.

questioning, searching, understanding.

i want to put these all into something great.

do we always have to have a rough draft? something to build off of?

does humanity work that way? each generation before the other is a rough draft, never completed until the sun explodes and destroys all.

is every day i live a rough draft of the other? and the day I die is the final draft, ready to be read in heaven.

i could write about anxiety, i have plenty to go around.

i could write about depression.

poetry is a way to help me feel something good, but now it’s time to feel through the bad.

i feel dark, unsure inside.

unsure of myself and who i will be for the rest of my life.

i’m floating in the black ocean, pools of ebony wash over my face.

i’m trying to keep it together, this heart made of paper and string.

sometimes i dont know when to call a poem. when to call its time of death for the rebirth to begin.

i question my own intelligence every day.

every day is a choice on how to live my life. what will it be today?

but how can i push past these walls? depression, anxiety, sadness.

these walls are strong, and i am not as strong as i used to be.

why do we stress on clothes and the latest toothbrush? when death can happen anytime.

we choose to live in the mundane limbo for the majority of our lives.

we buy the clothes and toothbrushes, to fill the void we all carry inside.

it doesn’t help for long.

maybe somebody comes into your life and fills it up so high you don’t need anything else but them. their smile can carry you throughout the day.

things can’t make up who we are. people, experiences, the beauty of life does.

belly laughs, tearful smiles, gut aching pain. it all means something.

whatever comes is going to come, it is already done.

if that’s what you believe.

i don’t believe in final drafts for poetry. my words are mine and they don’t need to change again and again here.

maybe i am feeling something again, a flicker coming back to start a fire.

my words are not going to change the world. but they will change mine.