I used to write poetry, 
quite prettily,
With flow and effervescent soul
Firm of form and splashed with
The color of a thousand heartbeats
Of dreams and tears and please-accept-me's, 
Humble offers of a crumbling spirit
And you could hear it in my words
If you cared to put your ear to my shell, 
The ocean in my broken heart churning
Threatening to swallow me whole. 
I used to write poetry, 
But times have changed, 
seen me turn orange and 
fall from my branch.
Dry and brittle on the forest floor
I feed the worms. 
I feed the roots. 
Summer is gone, and winter bears down. 
I used to write poetry,
Now I chisel away pieces of
My stony disposition
And fantasize of the warmth
That once kept my heart aflame.