Poetry is dead.
A proclamation has been given.
The muse has left the artist.
Leaving behind but an empty mind,
a state of hibernation of a kind.
The need to create still exists.
It's looking or a way out, not finding one,
cause there is none.
What's left is anxiety,
unerupted creativity.
Bottled feelings,
waiting to burst out,
giving my life a meaning.
