I used to be a poet…
wrapping my teenage self in poetry
larking about with words, o glorious, vain glorious words…

a long time now,
since a poem
has sprung forth
fully formed, half-assed, or otherwise
from me

perhaps my soul has become stilted
and steeped
in the mundane inanities of the life that lives in my head;
that endless stream of things to do, things to be said

checklists make terrible poems