Attempts at Poetry

I'm not a poet anymore. 

These days, I can't seem

To find a box of emotions, 

Filled up enough to pack, 

What I think or feel. 

There's always something missing, 

Like a meal without ice cream, 

Or the gentle announcement

Of an electric train to get off, 

So unlike the loud horns, 

That declare with unabashed

Restraint what really must be done. 

I have felt all my feels, 

And sang all my songs. 

Alas, it is the end 

Of a journey of a lifetime. 

To bid adieu to my all-weather friend. 

I try to fill up the emptiness

In my heart each day, 

With wine, motivation, 

Discipline and forgiveness. 

At this rate, I might grow old, 

A fading shadow of a tired tree. 

But there is almost always, 

Something missing, 

And I suspect it's you. 

Cold-hearted, ironic, 

Silent and dull you. 

What a ridiculous farce, 

This poem has turned to be. 

Like all the others where, 

I never say what 

I really meant to say. 

I'm not a poet anymore, 

Now that you're gone. 

But I am still trying, 

To write poems, 

Even with their missing words, 

This time with the silences, 

You gifted me, hoping

To turn them into soft instructions, 

Or eardrum rupturing horns. 

As always, something is missing, 

And yet, I attempt to write, 

And yet, I attempt to forget. 

While you, are yet to begin.