Running Out of Me

What is a poet to do
when he has nothing left to say?
No matter where I look,
I see nothing that would move me
to some emotional spillover
like a simple blade of grass,
the aroma of bacon on a griddle,
a baby’s smile, or you just existing
once did.
I don’t know why this happened.
Does a painter run out of form,
light and color to paint?
Does a composer run out of tones
to string together? Of course not.
Then why have I lost my capacity
to sense and react with words?
Maybe I’ve just run out of Me.
And I don’t know where
to find Me’s anymore.

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2 thoughts on “Running Out of Me

  1. Wow, that has happened to me recently. I’m hoping it’s temporary. Everyone says I’ve written so many books and that’s why, but I wonder if I need to leave my backyard and observe the world again. Just you being able to write about it seems positive and I’m guessing you’ll find you very soon!

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