ANYTHING LEFT?

I realized in the quiet of this morning that I may never write poetry again. In eighty-two blog posts I've composed fewer than five poems, and I no longer see the need to translate the world into verse.

Out of habit, guilt, or sincere curiosity, I question if I should push myself to look inside to see if there's any poetry left.

Then the more sensible (or is it lazy?) part of me keeps asking why I'd do such a thing.

Somewhere in the way back of my brain, I have a fantasy: I spend the summer writing poems and send them into the world come fall.

But, again -- why?

I've never cared about being published. This lack of desire always made me feel strange; everyone around me was very concerned about where their work would be featured. I just sat and shrugged.

I'm pretty sure you don't pull poetry from your soul like you pull a tooth from your head.

Is it possible, though, that inside of each of us, there are entire poems to be plucked? Do we all have poems, or only some lucky few? Do we just need to listen to discover them? Or is it more of a battle, a wrestling with a wriggling, sharp-toothed fish?

Perhaps there is nothing in any of us, and our job is to create something in this place of nothingness.

I don't like this not knowing, this going round and round.