Poetry

She said to me of late, the things I've been writing, are just  words strung together, something, is not quite right.
I look at her in disbelief,
me,
just stringing words together?

...I shrug my shoulders and string words together in a sentance and tell her off.

...but next day I'm at my desk reading through some of my older stuff, and I realize that she's right I've been off.

The words that passionately would flow from my pen have emigrated somewhere.
All that seems to flow,from my pen, now, are just cyphers, meaningless noise, scratch, scratch, dot, dot, dash, erase.

The poetry which lives in my soul, normally fighting to be birthed, has been stilled.
Still birthed?
Aborted, misformed, deformed...

Maybe there's not enough pain, emotion, heart?
Maybe too much brain, thinking, constipation, emmibriation, abbreviation...

You have always been my first love.
She which inspires wars, peace, love, passion, pleasure, sadness.
Just words strung together in a sentance, but with lots of heart.
My soul on paper.
I forgot how to fly, with wings  of paper and ink.
Finally my imagination has once again been freed.
Flights of fancy and verbal delight,
Oh imagination take flight,
Poetry my mistress of delight.