I don’t remember what I was going to write

If it was a clever metaphor for love
Or a bitter commentary on life’s tragedies
Or a tale of sadness marred by teardrops on the page

My mind gets like this sometimes
A lot, in fact
It is a worn out engine:
There are still moments when the gasoline sparks into ignition
And the explosion rockets the world skyhigh
But more often
The pressure builds and builds…
To nothing.

Just like it did with this poem .