Growing Pains

I wonder if I should be worried that I can't seem to write poems anymore. I used to be able to churn out words in prose and on occasions even rhymed the couplets. But I can't do that anymore. They weren't very good but they were one of two that had pizazz (or so I thought!). I wonder if it is like when you suddenly realise Santa Clause isn't real. That was a real bummer.

Can it be that you just reach a point that the poet in you had taken a page out of Elvis' book and left the building? Is it because with age comes practicality? Pragmatism? Does reality shock you so much that you cannot imagine anymore?

But surely the Emily Dickinsons and Tennysons of the past found a way around that? Surely they did not write their finest work when they were mere teens?

I worry about this as my ego will not let me believe that I am already past my prime. What next? Do I then stop reading my Archies? Heaven forbid.