I've forgotten how to flow.
To seamlessly merge one line with the next,
Was once second-nature to me,
But now I have lost that,
Replaced with disjunction.
Disconnected thoughts that,
Just.
Won't.
Fit together in any kind of,
Harmony or even agreement.
Perhaps what I've said all along,
Has destroyed me too:
Poetry is the bleeding of the soul,
Through the hand,
Onto paper.
But when the soul is confused,
Angry,
Discontent with itself,
It follows that words won't,
Follow on like they used to.
This could be the most honest,
Expression of my mind I've written,
For a long time,
Because I am not thinking,
I am not binding myself to structure,
Or a theme,
Or an image.
I'm just writing,
Hoping that perhaps something,
At least a little meaningful,
Will be portrayed,
Displayed,
Maybe even admired,
If luck smiles on these weary hands.
I have never endeavoured to find myself through words,
I prefer to be lost for words,
For the sake of poetry,
I can stop worrying,
Just.
For.
A minute about who I am,
Lose my inhibitions and scream,
Scream onto the page or screen,
That I am still alive,
And I need not know more than that.
So perhaps worrying about flow is pointless,
Because perhaps that's just where I am at the moment,
Somewhere a little less fluid,
A bit rougher.
And as I've reminded myself in tough times:
Pens write better on a hard surface.