I used to write no end.
I used to write like writing
was the only way I could live.
I wrote saccharine, sentimental pieces
where some people scoffed at.
And sometimes I bullied my way
into poetry like a dog getting on
a porcupine… and people adored me.

Out of my well-worn heart
and complex imagination,
I declared myself master of my pen,
oblivious to the fact
that poetry sometimes does fade.

The wine tasted bland.
Raindrops, annoying.
Night sky, frightful.

There was no more joy
in my writing,
only sad patterns for sorrow.
And so I grieved at the sunset
Like it would never rise again.



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