im starting to wonder
what it might be like
for words to find their way spilling from my lips again
something about me
stopped working
when you left
some part of me
forgot the heal of words falling out of my body
like whitewash
still i am called a poet
by all my friends
and the strangers who think they know me
and the words
feel like grass sometimes
against the back of my neck
remind me i am uncomfortable in this silence
in this position
where i am not producing anything
but discomfort
i wonder
what will be the final
difference
between
what is locked inside
and what finally
becomes
of
this
page
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