Lost

I’ve atrophied my artistry,

drained my arteries of poetry,

and so the story of the love I lost is gory.

Glory be the precursory, passionate version of me.

The one whose words would slip seamlessly,

and leave lyrical lines so easily.

But now the task is a burden, unbearable.

The concoction of verses curse me,

it worsens every day.

Strains me and drains me,

now my writings will wither away.

To my dismay, I find myself estranged

from the self I knew so intimately.

Now viscerally all I feel is tragedy.

Have I written myself into knots?

Now who I was is who I’m not,

and that has got a residual sting

that feeds the thing inside that needs

a perfect me.

But due to that perfection,

I’ve lost my introspection.

Now instead of playing the cards I’m dealt,

I’m yelling about someone else;

a supposed “former self.”

So heed these words if you’re floundering,

I’ve found inspiration is confounding.

Because even when I think she’s gone,

that past self lives, and still leads on.

That way with words was never lost,

it’s still written right here in the papers I tossed.

Dig up every grave

in the graveyard of poems.

Read ‘em and weep,

reminisce and own them.

You’ll still love the art of written lines,

because a poet’s heart

still pumps you full of blood red rhymes.

So suture up your future self,

treat her kind and treat her well.

Because she’s a passionate producer of poetry, profound.

You thought her lost,

but now she’s found.