(Poem 6 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

I don’t know how
to write about the real
things that keep me up
at night because
I’ve forgotten what they are.

My mind is as empty as
a lazy metaphor,
my brain smooth silk,
my soul a settled morning pond.

I’m afraid enlightenment
might make me a worse poet.
Do sages fear writer’s block,
Or do they eschew the arts?

Will newfound peace
change my focus such that
my words will suffer?
Have I found the worry stone
to hold in my palm tonight?

Well, looky there, proof
I’m still on the mortal plane,
but I’m getting closer
to the obliteration of self
and who knows what that means…

@Home Studio – 6th poem of the year