Writing a poem now seems a daunting task. I used to write every night ––multiples a week! no one had to tell me, ask, no one had to seek. What should I write about? I'd just look around. It'd come, It'd flow The words were happiest when found ––They'd tell me and I'd know. But then, months later, uninspired as I was, Confused, upset and just a little lost... I looked back and took a gander at my outlaid pride. To my dismay, to my contempt, my words were silly and had no cause. Upset upset What am I writing for? The talent I have is in my head and I need to be alone once more.