It did not happen,

you cannot remember that!


I was not like that!

They are ponderous,

real men, no, nothing boyish --


recognisable.

Being or seeming?
At first I was scared.
I was timid.
I tried to please,
but got in trouble anyway.
But when the changes came,
I was empty.
What you see is the real me.
I was worried.
I hated my image, but I ruminated.
I did things that should have been unspeakable.
I felt guilty. I felt free.
But I was still looking for the real me.

My body was art --- not to your taste,
you covered me in criticism.
Your words molding me like clay
until the mirror reflected a shell.

The child inside,
forever lost.

it’s been a long time, old pal
does the pen grab your hands with fright?
i used to read your poems and songs
like they were lullabies and holidays,
soothing me to sleep and escaping the days,

have you forgotten how to put pen to paper?
how to make fingers type?
is this what it’s like for all the poets whose words weren’t borne of pain?
thinking too ******* what to write, what to say
if they’re not tears, they don’t flow naturally
these words are hard to create

you’re all out of practice
nothing to compose that feels genuine or profound
are you a liar to yourself? have you lost who you once were?
are you not ready to give up what’s already gone?

maybe you’re not a writer anymore
working 6 for 7 in a bar, big boss boy now
happy but frustrated, making money you have no time to spend
but it gets spent anyway
with no quality time to show for it
and you, lying there, awake

staring at a blank page hoping the words will write themselves

wondering if you’re a failure for moving onto something else

do you even want to write anymore?
or do you just miss the freedom?

What is a new year worth
if there is nothing new about it
and also nothing old?

If I no longer know myself
no longer am my old self
and have to learn

to love the other person
with my name and my body
whom I'd rather not be

Who misses my capacities
who needs to think far too long
before she says something back

who is not as funny and quick-witted
as me, as I remember
that I was, as I am

But it doesn't come out
it is hidden somewhere
so that I want to crawl away

and see nobody, nobody
until it appears and
I can jump and talk again