These words don't come as they once did,
What once flowed like rivers,
Misery expounded onto page, ripped asunder from the mind,
And placed somewhere remote; far away.

Was I myself ever the poet, I wonder now,
Or was it simply those miserable thoughts,
Guiding the body to explain the mind away,
This is what concerns me most, now.

When before I could write, and write, and write,
About any small pain upon the weary heart,
An expression of these taut emotions, played by a coarse hand,
Not at all concerned with truth, or with what is best,
Simply expression, no matter how destructive, or deluded.

As I sit and write this now I am not fully convinced,
Even still these words are rooted in a pain,
The anxiety of the self, looking inwards,
Pondering if the space within is occupied, or vacant.