I think I’ve lost the ability to write poetry. I can still pen prose, soft and sweet and nice. But poetry, lines and rhymes, and iambic pentameter feel like a chokehold. Maybe if I space out my prose,
sentence by sentence…
and word…
by word…
I would find free verse, I would find my old poet’s way.
But poetry demands something of you that I cannot give. My life is full of simple pleasures lately, and I’m happy with it, I swear. For poetry you need intention, and hurt, and blood, and some piece of yourself that I can’t or won’t give.
The world can go without my ramblings for the next month of rest and relaxation. When summer comes, my muscles will ache, my skin will burn, I will cough as green lakewater fills my lungs, and then the words will come. They will come.