I miss writing proper poetry.

One that's not hung loose from a noose or edging on a cliff just so
I'm done with danger.

One that doesn't spell p o v e r t y in thoughts, in soul's actions,
nor one that respells anything at all, really. I'm done fearing.

I'm done fearing, I say, but maybe I really am not. It's been driving me and it will drive me
to the end of Who can say what.
A poetry that isn't about sadness, or sad pills, or dungeons you're left in to rot
Aren't you enough fed up of the foul smell?

I can't also fit rainbows in my lines
That is not what I hold in my pocket
And even if I did, once, I've forgotten how they look like.

But I miss writing proper poetry now
One that isn't about losses.
One that doesn't begin or end with your memory, doesn't trace lines on my skin with red.

I'm done writing, perhaps.
But I'm not done trying. Not yet.