I want to write a poem
But I’m not a poet anymore
I can’t breathe words and turn them into dioramas that people look at and admire
I can barely read without getting tired of seeing words
What is going on
I could only live in words before
But now I want to live in life
Now I want to breathe crisp air
And I’m greedy for the trees
I want to go and splash in puddles
Which I’ve done before
But in a different way
Not because it’s something nice to do
But because I want to enjoy the water before it goes back up
It’ll come down again
And my moods will fall too
But I’m here and I’m looking
For anything
Anywhere
Inside my own story
That I don’t have to rely on my own pen
To find.

Empty as a broken drawer,
The breathing slowing
Drowning in hollow thoughts.

You are alive but not living.
You are aware of nothingness.
& you are grooved in the habit.

I am empty,
broken,
slowing breathing,
& drowning in thoughts.

You are cemented...
There... that...

I am alone!

I'm fine. Yes, I swear
not overthinking it.
It's all in my head,
the lack of attention to the little details.
Sure, it's me that asks for too much,
not the lack of presence when around.

You're a time-bomb,
Seconds away from imploding.
Tick-tack! Get a holding,
You're about to be.

You don't measure your words,
And they tend to cut like knifes.