I don't like my poems anymore,
they don't quite have the same punch,
but then neither does my body rock from within
it is all even and humdrum.
Writing is not easy when there is nothing churning,
burning, singing and crawling under my skin
waiting to pounce, leap onto a blank page
uncontainable, unrestrainable,
using words that don't even make sense.
There is no furious typing trying,
no doodles or markers on the edges of my book,
I just sit and stare and think,
and that's the worst of it all,
when I'm at the brink of logic and reason,
I endeavor to write a poem.
Disaster. Failure. Best forgotten.