by Crystal Cook

Created on: September 12, 2008

Lack of inspiration.
Words form
with hesitation
just beneath
the surface,
longing
to spill
upon a page.

Fighting
out of hiding
surely they will
come.

Another thought
another try
another moment
passing by.

Set them free
or let them be
I hear their silent
plea, it echos
too from me.

I've no choice
they are my voice
It's not my will
that keeps them
hidden there
within . . .
hidden from
my pen.

I long
to feel them
flow
coursing through
my veins
releasing all
my pain
as they soak
into the page
as blackened
drops of rain.

Long have they
been quelled
locked away
without a key
just out of reach
for me.

Slowly they will
come,
slowly you will see
soon the words
with soar
and again
I will be
me.

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