People write because they are sad
about a past trauma, so
Poets are called poets because
they hold on to this trauma,
and turn it into tragic creativity
I cannot write about you anymore
The dark madness that surrounds you
constricts my soul like a phantom serpent
You are no longer my oxygen,
but rather ash in my throat, choking me
I must lay you and my tortured ideas to rest,
for the possibility that brighter inspiration may arrive one day
I will be myself again over time,
and I will write about other things that are not you
Although in this moment, I will miss you
Come back soon