Poet No More

There is a tremendous sadness within me that I am at a loss to express.
If I cannot put it into words, I am unworthy to claim the mantle of poet.
I think I will never pick up a pen again
if the inspiration to burn this feeling into the memory of the tree that died for the sheet of emptiness that lies before me
does not come to suck the deep blue blood from the dripping quill.
Why am I overwhelmed with an undefined weight I cannot lose,
not even if I were to starve myself until death stays my trembling hand?
What good does it do to care enough to carry that weight
when the heart that cared so much is no more than an empty sack of cold blood,
waiting to be drained by the suckers who have no heart for my blood to beat through?
And if I cannot write the answer to this mystery into a poem,
then surely I am not worthy to feel that which I have sought for eternity.