I haven't written in a while

haven't poured out my soul to you

and yet 

I feel this strange sort of emptiness inside me

like my fingers won't work or

my brain refuses to start

 

My thoughts usually rush right out

flowing and tumbling like a river

but now they comes in clumps

dripping slowly like blood that has coagulated

and

 

Even as I write I am stopping

searching for the words that used to come so easily.

I am losing touch with the thing that I so loved,

hurt by the things that I held close.

I compare myself to others knowing I'll never measure up-

it's a strange, lopsided kind of masochism.

Fumbling in the dark, I don't even know where I was going

when this poem began.

 

Losing touch, groping in the darkness.

per fortuna, ero già cierco.