Question
Are these poems true,
is my integrity intact?
Am I still a poet?
Can I still call myself a creator?
What have I sunk to,
what is this stubborn force inside,
why must I go on?
I feel broken,
my words are dead,
my thoughts have slowed.
Where once was a large store,
there is now almost nothing,
all that remains,
is to sweep the corners.
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