I feel like I haven’t written a good poem in so, so long. It seems almost forgein to me - pen...

I feel like I haven’t written a good poem in so, so long. It seems almost forgein to me - pen against paper. It feels like some part of me is missing and I’m wondering when I’ll find it again. Maybe it’s scattered in some field near my home. Maybe it’s still inside of me just waiting - almost like it’s fermenting and waiting to be just right to show itself to me again. Anyway, I miss the words that used to give me meaning. I miss the words that used to give me strength.