Pretty Pink Rose

I realize it's harder to find inspiration now that I don't have as defined an audience. There was a time when I knew who was reading. Knew who I was writing for. There have been such times. My voice has taken on different casts. Now, I catch myself lapsing into silences. Falling into disuse. Wondering what the point is. My tongue hurts from being held.

I write poetry in the car. I speak it in my head. I don't bother to write it down anymore. Everything is so obvious. It obviates.

I can't even maintain the posture I'm accustomed to. The effort taxes me.

Phase shift. Fixative. I can't afford the aftermath of rubbing my eyes red.