I've forgotten my own poetry
locked it away,
my pen stuttering to a halt
the standstill, so real
mired in a pit of dark criticism.
I don't know know how to trace the path
when the pens are all gone, relics
from a time when we pressed our thoughts on paper
like fresh flowers
the color weeping, a permanent echo.
The rasp of pages turning felt like something
permanent and worthwhile
But now words are weightless, floating
like debris orbiting the Earth
always raining down,
always unnoticed