Am I still a poet when I do not write

Am I still a poet when I taste ash on my tongue

when I feel the fire in the pit of my stomach

but only pay attention to the smoke coming out of my ears

I waste away in the prison that is my mind in months that seem to be years

No, I set myself aside in an ashtray or I start to lose my balance in a weary palm

I contain myself or I burn those that I love

but I can't say the box I was in didn't warn them in the first place; I'll get you in some way, nicotine is a hell of a drug

Am I still a poet when my skin feels like a cold window in a car

when my eyes reflect the rain that travels down them

when my touch feels more like a grasp

when I try to repair broken thoughts, ripped photographs, and obituaries with what I already lack

If I'm not, then what do I become when I don't have the energy

when I don't have the motivation

when I don't have the words inside me

Do I become the shadow of another poet who inspires creation

from the darker days of my life; using their art as my eulogy