Mourning my spontaneity

image source: @eccentricsky

I don’t write poems anymore

I don’t know why

It doesn’t seem to matter

Wait, maybe I do

I have an inner bicker

Between my sane self

And the I who suffer

Full of paradox, not metaphor

Spontaneous is the other

The another stutter

This is what I feel

An old soul,

Sick and ill

The trunk of the tree

Gave up on me

I fell swaying so stiff

I am a floating dry leaf

I am a fleeting mist

in a vast ocean

A poem of no gist

A bootless potion

My laptop told me this morning, it's been a year since I penned this. I have yet to edit, revise, or do whatsoever to finish it. Although I remember countless attempts, it all failed to add clarity to a vague picture of how foggy and hopeless my quarter life is getting. I guess, the best and the only metaphor to envelope this senseless and directionless poem is the poem itself. Apart from the seemingly dooming downfall of a young life, it also covers the reality that I can only start something and never find a will to finish it or lack the ability to do so.

Just recently, I realized that no matter how saddening the thought of losing is - may they be people, ability, talent, job, dreams etc. I only take hope in knowing it is a poignant poem. And it wasn't supposed to end up poignant as life is still wheeling and it ain't the end yet.