So Called Creativity

Do I still have the spark?
Do I still crave the fire?
Do I intend to continue what now seems as a former passion?
What once came so easily, is not a waste of time? I still yield to the phantom yet to be able to scribble something intentionally, with no fear of the sensation of loss.
Why is this so difficult now?
It use to be all that consumed me, entertained my mind, gave me a reason to enjoy the day and the night. What is, as, or was... can apparently be no longer. It is too hard, no it takes too much time, no it no longer flows from my mind the way that it did.
Is this what being adult is about?
To loose what once was and cease to capture it again. Can someone explain this to me? Give me insight? Or better still, help me find my former imagination. That flame that once consumed my mind, the fuel of my rebellious and intimate thoughts. The calm waters of my inner self have trended towards that of a poetic influence yet it was never nurtured. So I wrote to try and captivate what was within my most core, to attempt to put down my wildest notions. Yet poetry wasn't among my chaotic wanderings. And so it went untapped until I was alone, seemingly with no one to guide my new ability nor to reassure it in any influence of honest heart. And so here I sit at my desk, waiting for what once was interesting to both my mind and my heart to be rekindled. This so called poetic ability some have told me comes only naturally as long as it is not forced, true, poetry can be taught but only understood, while it at times can also be written as if it was a steady stream of thought. Such things are apparently No longer considered unique, since advancing so far, we have as a whole forgotten what really matters. And so it is also with my imagination. Such a flame is great to rekindle yet so far in it's ignition that I have felt at a sorrowful loss so many a times.
It is a pitiful and painful realization.