Sometimes,
I get tripped up
when I think of going back
to
who I once was;
a poet,
a man with his head held high
and
chest pushed out
like some sort of
sixties super hero.
Can I really replicate that?
Can I write poems as I once did?
I find that in these times
words
fall
like
a
waterfall
from my head,
through my nervous system,
into my chest
where a gust of wind
is pulled between my lips,
down my throat,
into my lungs
where it becomes vibrations
climbing out of me
like the victim of a car crash.  
then comes my teeth,
The porcelain wall.
my mouth,
the black hole.
Nothing seems to escape me anymore. I find that
in times of utter contentedness,
I can not speak. "
It's hard to write content." Unbelievably difficult,
unbearably so.
Yet, here I sit,
tapping away at my phone screen, dividing myself from my surroundings by vibrations of sound.
Yet, here I sit.
Trying to pull the lid off
of
this porcelain vase.
Yet here I sit
begging my body to let go,
some of these words
are to heavy to hold.
And  
some
to light to be held back.