Used To

I used to be a poet
The kind that reads and writes
I like to think that I was good
That something about it rhymed
Maybe even touched a heart
Or made someplace in time
For wishers few and dreamers too
To while away and cry
Shedding tears and escaping fears
To find lost Wonderlands
And catch the morning dew
Yet withered are those feelings
A sunken rotted mast
No ship will sail
For that blasted whale
The ages pass and clasp
Tightening like a noose
Creativity is strangled
And my poems drink abuse
For who am I to even try
To stir that long dead muse
It was so far and long ago
That I put pen to part
Bleeding all and seething heat
From a lonesome lovelorn heart
Still every day I wonder
And wander even so
Yearning for the poems
That still won’t let me go
Letters written warp and fade
The inkwell running dry
A lovely bit of song I made
Yet still I could not die
I used to be a writer
The kind that bleeds and cries
I like to think I was great at it
But now
I have no time...