My brain

The words do not come from me no matter how I try.
My brain is else-where, but where I do not know.
Perhaps it is with the one who has scorned me,
Or worse, with the one I have abandoned.
It could be with the one I have been betrayed by and have loved so much.
Maybe it was taken by thieves who were searching for something grand.
Perhaps it is amongst all my insanities and the poems I could not write.
I can only hope it is under the bed, collecting dust.
Maybe it is with my English book, my knowledge of literature and all else that I have betrothed and lost.
Now, if only for the monsters, I would be able to look.