It broke,
It’s rotten
Or it died.

The words don’t come,
At least not like they used to.

All that is left are the hollow,
Scattered fragments of language
No longer forming sentences.

Writing was easy and safe and something,
But now sits rejected and empty for me.

It is either the absence of love or the echoes of all the pain,
But something about my words is no longer right or just.