You know it’s bad
when your poetry sours.

When your poetry sours,
becomes as brittle and bitter as your heart.
singing the same sad song
over and over and over again,
you know you’re stuck
in a deep, deep pit
even if you see people on the other side of the glass
up above you;
it’s not just your writing suffering.

When your poetry sours,
it’s no good anymore.
Past its expiration date,
It goes down like curdled milk
and comes up like vomit.
It doesn’t help you anymore; it just hurts
to write, to read, to think.
It’s not artistic anymore,
just painful.

When your poetry sours,
it’s no longer the hand that pulls you from the rubble
but the hookworm that attaches itself to your guts
and sucks,
only birthing more of itself along the way.
Words, in the absence of light,
become your therapist,
speaking softly in the echo chamber of your soul
and, even though it only smarts,
it’s all you have.
Yet they are no good anymore,
you need something more.

You know it’s bad
when your poetry sours.