I can't write a poem.

There are no longer words

to describe how I'm feeling.

I can no longer tell you a story,

Or illustrate that same sad picture.

I fear that I've lost motivation.

I am uninspired,

And in being so, maybe a little inspired.

I've grown from a time when

I forced words through choking tears,

A time when teachers, friends, and family

Proclaimed me genius.

I was broken.

Perhaps I still am.

But once I gave up expecting,

And began simply accepting,

I lost my metaphor.

The syllables inside of me

Float, unconnected, without sense.

I've become content to be complaisant.

Or complaisantly content.

I make impetuous decisions,

No time to sit and mull the darkness.

I'd much rather sit and mull my wine.

I'm intoxicated by the taste of my smile.

Surprised, by how long my pillow's been dry.

It's disarming,

How I've built this beautiful reality with such dexterity.

I fear I will never again be aroused in this way,

Though, I seem so often aroused in many ways.

I told you, there are no longer any words.

I told you, I cannot write a poem.