The flow of poetry has been stopped up for a little while now, but there was no dipping back into the archives tonight, this one is fresh. Thank you to haileybussey on flickr for the Creative Commons photo--I feel that its elegant sadness was perfect for this poem.

The Killer of Dreams

I haven't written much since we said goodbye,
and since we said hello again I've written even less.
The words form between my childhood and the now,
but they don't have the energy to make it to the page.
These few have arrived. Maybe they'll stay.

I trail the pen on the paper. I click the keys.
But nothing is worthy of a single read.
The save icon stares me down,
knowing it will get no attention from me.

Some would call this writer's block,
but I know it's depression.
I'm sad and confused about an unsure future;
about a relationship that I want to save
and a self that I want to save even more.

I may not have to choose one over the other,
but it's the oxygen mask/airplane scenario.
I do have to help myself first.

I could be the ultimate martyr
and give up everything again
to salvage this love.
I'm not being asked to.
But I'm afraid I'll do it anyway.

When I fix myself, the love will flow,
and so will the words that elude me now.

I blamed so much on the one who
was breathing in bed next to me;
sleeping fitfully then,
but who would now sleep serene.

The fault was ill-placed.
No one could have forced me to abandon anything.
I allowed those things to happen.

The killer of dreams was me.

photo credit: haileybussey on flickr