Death of a Poet

I don’t write poems anymore.
My notebook is empty, my pen dry,
my thoughts washed up on the shore
like so much refuse.Too long have I been
trapped in the mess of everyday life,
too long negligent of the gift
that now seems to decay from want
of use.

I don’t write poems anymore.
It seems too painful, too much like
something I used to love but can no
longer embrace.Too long has my mind
remained dormant and untended,
my creativity squandered, swallowed up
by fear of letting my soul
bleed on the paper.

I don’t write poems anymore.
It’s easier to feel pain than try
To efface it.

EDIT: The following poem was featured in the movie I saw earlier, In Her Shoes, which was lovely and which I highly recommend.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

–e e cummings

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