the poet in me is quiet now
no longer does he sing words
of love and whisper songs of
passion, no longer does the
drive to create pull at my feet
and walk me into the pit of
fresh reality, no longer does
the relief come when the word
emerges on the page, instead
there is only dissatisfaction and
sadness.

the poet in me must have left
no longer friends with the beat
of my heart, no longer in tune
with the secret channels my mind
broadcasts, no longer demanding
me to feel that which I refuse to
even acknowledge, no longer
there reminding me that I am
more than a body of flesh and
blood.

the poet in me is dead or gone
no longer putting up a fight with
the destructive order of my soul,
no longer bringing out the human
side of my heart, no longer engaging
all of my brain, no longer pushing me
to be more than I am expected to,
no longer making me sing and
talk and believe in myself, no
he is too good for that now.

the poet in me is quiet now
and all we have left is his pen
and our memory.