I'm Worried I Can't Write A Decent Poem Anymore
And I don't know what to do about it
Is it possible to run out of words?
To be so lost and so starved for meaning
that I'll look for it anywhere,
even in the rotting leftovers of the love I pulled from your lips?
That I'd be so willing to beg my vacant soul
to feel something, anything,
other than idleness or dejection?
Is it possible to call yourself a writer
when my hands tremor every time I pick up a pen?
* * *
This can't just have been a "phase"
for me. But maybe I've written all there is to write.
There are over 150,000 commonly used words in the English language
and for some reason I can't even string a handful of them together
to form art that doesn't have to deal with
ache or failure
or this emptiness that I feel inside if I let myself think about
how lonely I am these days.
I'm worried I can't write a decent poem anymore
because every time I sit down in front of a blank page
the only words that come to mind
are ones of frustration and grief
* * *
I don't want to be stuck on this
neverending rollercoaster anymore,
holding onto to pieces of myself
that are floating, falling away,
watching my blurring happiness slip by.
I've lost so many things lately—
is it possible that I'm losing this too?