R.I.P.

At this point, screw poetry

My works and inspiration have been stolen from me

The letters to form art have trickled off my tongue like a waterfall

Leaving them to pool at my feet

Dry are the creative springs that once nourished the woven word

Gone is the reason for pen to meet paper

My poetry is d e a d

It has been set to rest like the many souls in the graveyard

It lies in a coffin created by my own inhibitions and my own inability to release

Its soul lies down in a restless slumber awaiting its awakening

Or maybe it roams the earth in search of another home

Maybe it yearns for a poet more worthy than Ito utilize its full potential

To tap into the hidden powers it possesses

My poetry has left me alone and captive by my own thoughts and feelings

Without means to escape I become trapped in mental cells

My unspoken words create the bars that hold me

The compressed feeling shoved deep into my soul create the chains that bind me

My sanity screams and beats against the walls to be broken free

Poetry?

What is the meaning of the word?

At this point, its meaning has been long forgotten

Gone like a lost friend or a stolen love

The faded memory may live on somewhere in the darkness that has become my soul

With each recollection of it, a white hot flame courses through my veins

Renders me

Speechless

Motionless

Emotionless

It brings a tear to my eye to remember how I could sit and write for hours

Nothing could stem the coursing river of life through my hands

Soon,

The Pen

The Paper

Me

We would become one

So fluidly we would mesh

Creating a sacred dance

An unwritten waltz

Alas, I am not the writer I once was

With every realization of that, another tear is shed

And the pain throbbing in my heart has become synonymous with its beating

My outlet

For love

For hope

For anger

For pain

It has flown away like a beautiful bird

Its last song resounds yet in my ears

My inspiration is gone

The light from my eyes has been maliciously extinguished

What point is there even to exist if not for a purpose?

If not for a reason, why try to make something out of nothing?

To live is to be.

To be is to spread the light that shines in you into the hearts of all those you come into contact with everyday

Without my light,

What am I?

Without my soul and purpose,

Who am I?

Am I even with the plants of the earth?

The brainless creatures whose sole purpose is to live and die?

Maybe I should simply wallow in the ashes of my poetry set aflame

And forever remember the old days....