It feels strange when I don't write
But stranger when I have nothing to write about.

I could write about new starts
And how I'm feeling near-adult these days
Or about how nothing's the same as it was two months ago.
But writing about events always feels wrong to me.
Forced.
Artificial.
Desperate.

What if writing was just a summer's phase?
A passing fancy
Disempowered with the start of fall
Disempowered by my attempts at improvement.

Maybe I only had enough poet in me for these three hundred.
Maybe I've used myself up.

Maybe I'm just not letting myself be inspired.