Poetry used to be my release
but I've been writing so many stories, it no longer sets me free
Every description is charged with doubt
is this framed right, what's my structure, it's just harder to get out
Napkins stuffed in shoeboxes and folders beneath my bed
journals upon papers to drain everything that was in my head
No matter the threshold for pain the pen would always ease
a stitch here, a stitch there, until I'd no longer bleed
Words were my addiction, every sentence was a hit
get an entire poem out and I'd have satisfied the itch
Carried an entire era of processing emotion through text
but these days, a simple AABB ABAB is all that comes to set
Poetry used to be my release
a painted canvas of perfectly painful prose to see
cleverly threading my experiences so carefully under words
disguising scars, all dressed up in adjectives and verbs
Its harder these days, there's a blockage
or perhaps a lack of emotion that's toxic
Either way, I miss the way the words would carry me
Poetry used to be my release
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