I haven't been able to shake this
most recalcitrant feeling that the
best of my poetry lies behind me,
I know it's silly, still I feel it's true.

I don't know how to write anymore,
It is not composition to which I refer;
I do not have the will to express anger,
I do not have an interest in any treatise.

Even the depressive laments I transcribe
most ruminatorily do not appear to be of
any significant worth. Everything that I go
to transcribe I feel ashamed of. I lost interest
and have forgone my soul and all its contents.
Gone are the bashful stories
from my mischievous youth,
Gone are the great pondering
pieces I'd craft of the universe.
The poetry stalled, I am no use;
There's no meaning