My words have
become muddled.
Nothing sounds like
poetry anymore
and that scares me.
I don’t hear like
I used to,
but
my sight
is
impeccable.

I’ve seen more
shades of green
than I even knew
could exist.
The sky doesn’t
set like it used to.
I used to see only yellow.
Now I see orange
And gold
And red
And love
And hope
And peace
And strength
And passion.

I should have written
about that
sunset
because it was beautiful.
And no memory I have
now
can even begin
to aptly describe it.

I haven’t written
in 83 days.
That time accounts
for two birthdays
twelve days of
camp counseling
one death
five pillows
one relationship
six bottles of Mike’s Hard
one sun tan
thirty-seven dates
and
one-thousand nine-hundred and ninety two hours
worth of
poems I
I was too lazy to write.
How dare I?


My words
aren’t so easily spoken
anymore.
My mind is reeling
for the correct
letter
to type.
I’m back to
poetry
and I
never should
have left