soft light

i don't know what poetry is anymore

two years have passed since i lived in the
belief that i could breath poems and spit
fire simultaneously, that skin was made
from metaphor, that commas were woven
intricately between teeth for a reason:

but i stopped writing
a while ago, and i'm still
unsure as to what that reason
is. my own soul
turned up empty, as if i
knew too many words or
had too many memories,
overwhelmed with how little
and how much there was to
say.

i'd like to dream in poetry again,
please.