I don’t even know what to write anymore,
Abruptly,
All of the words are on the shore.
None makes sense of what
An obstructed mind
Would presume.
Im choking on all
Of my raw
Undone
Prompts.
That float
Above the sea
Of too many
I don’t think so’s
An obligation,
I would assume.
For an admirer
Of an entire delicate
Art of poetry.
I’m enslaved
To a fugitive
Of a kind.
I’m addicted to
The ifs and buts,
The cans and could nots’.
Oh I can tell you,
If my mind was ever following a story,
Or believing it all true.
I don’t even know
What to write anymore
Fill in my veins
The vital consequence of poetry,
I will never enjoin
For nothing else
For a whole viability once again.
