Scraps of Poetry

Seven-year-old scraps of poetry--
Like I knew a goddamn thing back then....
The words came out smooth, and silky,
Well, my ink well's dried out now.
No pretty words left on my tongue.
No self-delusions left on love or life.
I know there's nothing in this world left unsaid.
(We gotta talk about goddamn near everything.
Whatever happened to the silence? The Silence!)
I didn't think things would end up here,
But if I've learned anything, this ain't the end.
No, no, you see... the World, she keeps turning.
Won't speed up, won't slow down, sure as hell won't stop.
Seven-year-old scraps of poetry...
Used to mean everything to me.
Now they're just kindle to the fire.
(Not a goddamn metaphorical fire.
Just a fire. Burning hot. Burning.)
Paper curls up, browns, then turns to ash.
This is where it all ends up.
Ash.
Nothing left to write, nothing left to live.