i used to have poetry, before my mind broke,
shattering into some hundred-million glittering shards,
and when it fractured, i think the words went with it.
they don’t come ‘round much anymore,
‘cept in annoying Seussian couplets of subjects mundane,
the banality of which makes me totally insane.
there was a time when the words flowed like water,
sentences would spring fully-formed in my head,
too many to attend to so i let some go,
let them drift away off into the ether,
committed to nary a scrap of paper,
i wish i had them now,
a point of reference to get me going, a stepping-stone.
i wait impatiently
now that the patchwork is taking hold,
for something to inspire or bring words by on wings.
i’m anticipating motivation
while refusing to remember
there was also a time, before my mind broke,
that i worked at it.