AT one point, I was
unable to breathe.
slow and deficit
labored oxygen.
when my fingers
grew stagnant.
the poetry didn't come
easy anymore.
everything tasted
ugly.

ONE night, I couldn't
write anymore.
I couldn't wake up
my sleepy pen
and I am terrified
that it won't ever
write the same again.
call me again, pen,
just one more time.
just one more time.

POINT blank, I was shot
with a wall and a trigger.
no longer flushed with
poet love and the
newborn smell of
a writer locked in
blank pages of nothing
aching to be something.
I ate rain until I was rain.
I wrote until I couldn't.