There was once a time when the poetry I wrote possessed much feeling. Now when I write them, the feelings only bleed out, rather than erupt like a geyser. I rarely feel the “chills” I usually get when listening to my favorite songs, nor do I cry like I used to. I enjoyed weeping when on a sad memory. Strange as that sounds, it made me feel alive.

Now when I play a sad song, I feel this automatic burning in my stomach, and a tingling in my back. I can only determine that as frustration/anxiety for not feeling what I want.

Now then, I can attribute this “emotional numbness” to recent trauma in my life. Recent trauma, that involved the beloved I once had attempting suicide numerous times, after we broke off. I tried to lay the blame on myself, though it would not work. I could not feel such guilt. Was it my fault, because I was broken, too? I threw anger in any direction close to me, and it was hurled at her.

Now my emotions don’t even come, because of that. I write poetry with thought, not feeling. They feel mass produced, not inspired.

I have no idea what to do, to cure this. Maybe it just takes time to settle whatever my brain is dealing with, on its own.

It’s interesting that when I say this, I still write at least 5 poems per day. I believe that to be based on the level of persistence I had acquired during my relationship with the woman I loved. Persistence… or stubbornness, as some of that has turned into delusion. I am empathic towards much. I see problems everywhere. Though, rarely do I turn to myself to see whatever is wrong with me. This is when I want to.

All that I did for that woman I had loved, the state I saved her from, the years it took to nurture her to a better condition, the hope and strength I gave to her… it is something she personally feels is unmatched in terms of offering back. All I wanted was her hand in marriage.

All I wanted was an eternal love, an eternal union. It is why I speak so highly of such things. I am the kind of man who takes the words “disgrace” and “disloyalty” as seriously as God would know about the word “love”. And yet, I have disgraced myself in terms of not knowing who I really was. By the end, I turned from the strongest man alive to the weakest man alive, in under a second. There was a selfishness brewing beneath everything I loved about her.

I believe I am still loyal to much, that I hold these principles deeply to heart. What made me break off from the woman I loved, is not something I could have controlled. No one could, because it was an illness, or a condition, that science has not developed a cure for, yet.

My love for her braved the criminal world, braved endless thoughts of leaving this world with my body hanging from a rope, braved every misery one could think of.

Still, I care so deeply about her, wanting so much to heal from this wretched pain, that I know nothing else.