Ancient History
doesn't seem so far
when you are drunkenly
swaying with it at the bar.
So grab on to that glass,
and hold on to the straw
because this time, darling,
we are not ending in a draw.

A lack of inspiration, of yearning
to write poetry. Desire, where have
You gone? My ambition wilting, dying,
Waiting to be reborn, need one to salve
My insecure heart. Perfection is lost,
Hidden in my humanity; Realized
I have discovered joy, but at what cost?
Moving in the wrong direction, disguised
as a bright new future, who am I to
Say what works for me or not? I am but
a child, groping through the darkness. Flew
down the stream of confusion. In a rut
For years to come; I’m trapp’d. Stuck in a cage;
This is my own doing, my lack of rage.