Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?

I dream of a world
Where you hear my words
Letting me wander until my oceans run dry
And then in your arms up stream hold still
And onto everything grasp
As if in every river you wanted to dive

If everything is going well
then something must be wrong

There's something very
Poetic
In the soles of my shoes.
In the way my feet
                   walk about.
Ready to run
Ready to stop
And fall on my knees.
The way that I walk:
Doubting my ankles,
Tip-toe-ing on stepping-stones
Of fear.
The terror of hearing
The cracks in the earth
And seeing my souls slipping
Through the crevices
                       of my heart.

There's something almost
Dramatic
In the peaks of the mountains
That rise inside me.
Where the souls have been digging for gold
But found only ashes
Found only dirt.
The tingle of abyssal loneliness
Spreading to the tips of my toes,
Transcending the existential essence
                               of my being.