What Is Left?

Poetry writing is like a thorn 
you want to pull it out 
when it jabs into your skin


What is left is a hole

relief for a while 
until a numbness enters


Filling that void 
a poison soaked vacuum  

deadness sets in 


"Nothing left to write about" 

does the mind run from the truth 

or does it run toward another thorn?  

Words are gone, you've said it all along 
so many times, in so many ways 
when you ask yourself, again 


"What is left"?  
And the answer becomes 

nothing