It’s hard to write poetry when you’re not emotionally compromised. I wonder if poetry is some secretion that leaks from one’s mind when it’s broken. Or maybe, like tears, the words come streaming out as a way to heal what burns. I suppose the production of poetry is a good reference point for one’s state of mind. I can’t seem to produce anything, so I must be happy. What a strange cost. I miss the words and the rhyme or lack of one. I miss carefully documenting each finished poem into a beautiful notebook, dedicated to the art. I could try to write about daffodils, but those just aren’t as compelling as Death stopping for me.