So many words have come from my fingertips;
So many syllables and rhyme schemes
the mind grows inconceivably dumbfounded
at such creativity I once took for granted.
I stare at the screen, at this paper,
at the wall and I am so lost.
Those words were my breath.
Each one so significant and
somehow different than the last.
I excused myself from self-expression
and lost the passion I self-expressed.
My every burning fire of the need to write—
extinguished by time;
Even as I try to gain inspiration from love—
The most beautiful of all things;
the most reused poetic device since creation—
I fail to find the words that used to
so abundantly seem to type themselves.
Maybe one day I’ll write again
with such compelling passion as I once did;
With creativity flowing from me, cascading;
with words so delicately placed…
they wouldn’t even require metaphor.