I Might Be Done With Poetry

lovetherain is a seeker on a strange path and tends to philosophize everything, from the strange and odd to the mundane

I sat down to write a poem, and I could only come up with one word:

Disenchanted.

I am not feeling anything from the inside that could be considered poetry.

I have been bitter and angry. I don't know if I am blocking my access to my inner feelings, or if there is just nothing there.

Has the well run dry? Am I in a new place?

I could always come up with something before, ESPECIALLY when I was feeling bad.

I think something has changed, but I don't know what.

I hope I still care. About myself, I mean. I fear that I may not anymore. I'm not sure I deserve anything good, or any type of happiness.

I feel bitter.

Hopefully, I can still paint. I haven't tried for a while. If that is gone too, well, then, I'm not sure what is left for me.