"No more of a broken heart" By Ben Goode 2019 (c)

What happened to that sensitivity? What happened to that heart and soul?
With a drought of creativity. I feel as if i have lost my hands.
Even if I had a pen it would be ink-less.
With the pages I used, swept away by the winds. 
I feel as if they have been left there. And they have been trodden on.
Or maybe someone has left rings of coffee upon them. In their disregard. 
Are they really that important anyway?
Who really cares about what I've done? And what I could do?
I can no longer dwell in a past I don't care about.
And if I can't write, What future could be written for me?
The present being as uncertain as it is?
What memories are left to hold onto?
What used to matter?
Was there ever anything?
Or have I just forgotten about it? In a voluntary amnesia?
Lost in a concussion of reality. Disorientated and...
what was I saying anyway?
Would I like who I had become, if I met me in the past?
I know I'd be mortified, and wouldn't want to be me.
I'd run away, but knowing that the future would eventually catch up with me.
I'd know I couldn't change what was coming.
And I still wouldn't be able to. Just looking at the mirror.
I wonder who I am. With so many blocked memories.
My mind has protected me from them. And I am grateful for that at least.
No more of a broken heart. Forgetting who broke it.
And who never could again.