I feel like my outlet of the pen
Isn't as prevalent as it was then
The world quelled the poets mind
Silenced the verses I sing inside
An affliction of nothingness
My brain has wrought
I once had something,
A train of thought ?
Have the verses come back?
Do they dance in their alignment,
As I pour these words onto a page?
I think not..

When the poet cannot write
He sits awake in thought at night
Because the thoughts have no place to go
How to share himself he does no know
I've always been an introvert
Talk about myself? Absurd
Instead I observe
And the words begin to churn
Begin to spiral
Poetry laced in piety
These thoughts are viral
Often suicidal
Of intricate insight and false idols
Yet, I feel so alone
When the words don't churn
Can't reflect on what I've observed
But I have to try,
So to the pen I do return