I Can't Write Anymore

I don't know what to write anymore. 

It's a funny thing to say. 

I assumed I'd always have my fancy words,

My thoughts never could stay at bay.

I don't know what to echo anymore,

What I want my fingertips to say.

I forget how I loved this in the first place,

My voice is in decay.

I cannot voice out my love for this,

I cannot be okay.

Because my love for writing is infinitesimal, 

But today it's in a grave.

My throat feels torn apart by scavengers,

The leftovers of who I used to be.

A writer whose youth escaped her, 

A mockery of the art I could see.

There's a different world we go to, 

When we pick up that pen.

Somewhere haunting and beautiful,

Where only other artists can be. 

I miss my sweet sanctuary, 

A happy place indeed. 

Art is in an estuary, 

Somewhere I can safely bleed.

It feels like the lights are off,

The door's closed and the windows cracked.

I can see the faded beauty,

Of the woman I am supposed to be.

To write is to fall madly in love,

With the way these syllables combine. 

To yearn for poetry that drips like honey,

Without it, I'll never be fine. 

I don't know where my writer self has disappeared to,

She didn't even bid me goodbye.

God, she knew how to spin this yarn of words,

Magnificent in it's own light. 

And as I write this today,

I do so often wonder,

Is it dead, is it gone?

Or does it just need some tender?