On Why I Stopped Writing Poems

A Poem is born in silence
The silence that breeds when one alone in the midst of a crowd

A Poem, she sets free
The heavy thoughts by turning them into mere words

Puts in front of your eyes
On the white page, what you couldn’t quite describe

But knew the Feeling
That was always there, weighing you down

Pulling you down
Into the depths, while you pretended to hide behind your pillow

Underneath your blanket
And wish that you were indistinguishable from the bed

The bed
With the green flowers on a blue field

A Poem
She lets you ramble on and on

About everything
She doesn’t expect courage, neither guarantees salvation

Yet the truth
Comes out every time the pen tattoos the page

Maybe
That’s why I stopped writing poems

Makes me feel naked
Yes, by exposing my thoughts for the world to see

The silence
That once I called my own

Melts away
And I find myself once again, in the same crowd

In the same room
Hiding behind the same pillow, In the same bed

The one
With the green flowers on a blue field