I can’t write poems anymore,
I’m too content.

Last year my life was tragic
But, my work was beautiful
Substance abuse
Toxic relationships
Death
All came together to create
Passionate stanzas and
The most poignant images

But I’ve sobered up
Ended or fixed those relationships
And looked at death with new eyes
And now I can’t write poetry.

I don’t know how to describe the way
That music makes me feel electric

How am I supposed to paint the sky at 6:43 am? No one cares
To hear about its overflowing clouds and immaculate sunrise

Or the wholeness I feel
Or the beauty I’ve found within myself

Since it isn’t death
Isn’t heartbreak
Isn’t painful,
It isn’t poetry.