I have forgotten how to write
without flowing flourishes,
without the rhyme that nourishes
each tight woven and cherished
poetic line.

I have lost the ability
to lose the structure
playing games with
the worlds of words I love.

When I was younger, I did not need
anything,
but the words to come flowing
from the fount I found,
spewing rose petals of purple and pink
and I did not feel compelled to think
what is the next word
in the next verse
that might link and light past lines.

I miss the curling lips
as I let the words just slip
and lay where they may
not caring how they would play
with similar sounds.

I feel like a poetry clown
who cannot break the cycle.