I CAN'T FIND WHAT ONCE MADE ME WANT TO WRITE
It was an inspiration that just whirled up out of thin air, went through my ears, and bam!
There it was, a beautiful piece of sadness describing the most tragic heartbreak anyone could image out of just one simple thought of agony.
I had this lighting speed of easiness, the words came so rapidly, I was screaming in the quietest form.
Now I skip to all sides of the conversation, to each bulletpoint in the topic, and my second guessing makes me write maybe too many times.
I want to write each letter with a dignity and a form I didn't erase.
The words will have already wrote themselves without a re-reading to know if it makes sense.
For ***** sake, no more lists.
I want a story of what has been forgotten by my finger tips.

My heart hasn't been hurting, i've spent all this time healing.
The blood doesn't pool onto the floor anymore and there are no more risks at dieing in the hands of oneself
So is that the reason why poetry is no longer a language I speak?
I thought I was fluent.