The beauty of your ‘lost poetic age’ is
The fakeness you can not even fake now
Then you felt like your heart was full of
Motion that you could not put into action.
And the words that you invented
Were all devoted to express that intense something
And your voice trembled off-key
As if you were a bad actress.
But you were not. You were badly distressed,
Addressed by your past, addressing the future.
And the present absorbed you in this allure
Of unheard music and the unsaid.
Now your poems sound too sincere,
And you’ll never return to that fakeness
That meant your heart was larger than your words.