I used to be able to write poetry endlessly.  The words and melodies would flow effortlessly from my pen... I was never without pen or paper to catch the things that would come to mind.  I had notebooks and journals filled with my thoughts -- which were so complex and beautiful and braided with light and dark.

I lost that ability in college.  Poems and words came sporadically.

Now... I sat with my poetry journal in my lap for 15 minutes before something came.  And that something was not much of anything.  But I will share it here.  Because here I'm exposing all of myself -- my inabilities, my shortcomings, my struggles.

This poem was a struggle.  I don't like it.  It's unfinished.  It's rough.  It doesn't flow smoothly.  There are not allusions or illusions or metaphors true to my writing style.  To read it makes me frustrated.  Makes me want to ball it up and throw it away.  But despite the lack of beauty in this poem, it's so true.  My pen wrote the naked truth.  Which is why I'm sharing it.  Because the naked truth isn't pretty, it doesn't flow, it's rough, and it's not a masterpiece.  It's just the truth.

Neither Nor                                             

At the intersection

of speckled and smooth

there's an in-between.

Neither nor the other.

Somewhere a clock ticks

barging in unwanted

but necessary.

Time.

The in-between sucks me in.

Neither chaotic

nor settled

I lie.

Between the two I sink away

hiding.

But what is there to face anymore?

Like a 19th century army

I've retreated from the battle lines.

I've written my letters

and snuck away

far from my old life

and into obscurity.

Just a haggard, scarred soldier

sauntering un-noticed into town

weary and dirty

carrying their life with them,

things few and far between.

Quietly becoming a piece of the daily tapestry --

just a thread.

Unimportant enough to not be noticed...

Routine of obscurity becomes habit

and habit becomes comfort.

Numbness is comfort.

Neither speckled nor smooth.

Will there be an awakening?

This calmness in life

is uncharacteristic.

Can I care less than this?

Is that possible?

Desire to feel is all there is --

What is there to feel?

Day in and out is the same:

calm,

simple routine

that fills my day but doesn't excite my soul.

There is beauty and appreciation

in everyday.

But my soul is vegetative.

My life is mindless.

I need resuscitation...