My medicine has expired

It walked away, the initiator of my ambition
My hands have lost the ability to write 

For it left, the shield which had protected my emotions 

The paper lies empty on my bed at night
And my pen won’t bleed anymore

For my eyes have got no tears left to shed

My ink cannot cry anymore

How can I feel happiness?
If my healer walked away, leaving me to shatter
Poetry abandoned my soul, snatching with it all the joy
The poems won’t compose themselves on paper.

I stare blankly, unable to do much

I whisper into the ear of numbness

Emptiness has taken over the wheel, and it won’t budge

Making me drive away from the path of worthiness
As appears the moon and arrives the dawn

I used to bring my pen and turn my pain into art

Where has the poet in me gone?  

Writing was my only prevention from falling apart 

What’s supposed to heal my scars?
Is it the greatness of the sorrow or the emptiness itself?
I am burdened by my inability to dream with the stars
I am a poet and I need my poems to fix myself. 

Yet, right now, my sadness is on the road to recovery

For here I am, writing about not being able to write

It makes me wonder about the grandeur of artistry

accompanied by poetry, as the stars shine in the midst of the night.