I feel inadequate.

Words have left me I think.

Long, long ago, quietly, secretly, slowly, 

leaving word shaped holes in my vocabulary.

I only have silences in my blood now, 

and some empty aches inside my throat.

And you know poetry cannot be written with

silences in blood and empty 

aches in throats.

Poetry needs words, thoughts, passion,

music, patience, blood, sweat, love.

And, of course, every time,
a little bit of the soul..