I once wrote
To vent,
To express,
To combat the pain.

The words bled from my pen
Like a waterfall
Rushing to escape.

Now the well has run dry.
The current has slowed to a trickle.
My paper remains parched.

Perhaps the pain has lessened?
Taking the words with it?
While a sacrifice,
That could be a worthy trade?

But no.

The pain remains.

The poetry is gone.

So much came at once,
The muse drowned in that waterfall.

Little did the water know,
It was the muse making it flow all along.
In drowning the muse,
The water dried itself.

Maybe that was its plan all along.