Why I don't write poetry anymore

Absent from the likeness of God,
some piece of myself whittled away
by my own hands in a moment.

What a shame, they might say.
Something in me demands;
it makes demands for
reconcealiation.

There's passion and hope,
rage and remorse,
then grief when it's lost
but the feelings will expire.

I hold onto things
old coupons that have no worth
a few cards from a misplaced deck
wishing for the time I lost.

Where's the meaning without the worth?
Time will whittle me away anyway.
Why not give myself, even in pieces.
Each of us - meaningless unless given away.

But life is an offer,
a limited time
a time that will expire.