Writer's Block

Here I am, trying to push juice on the nakedness of paper, trying to rev up the tip of my tool. Ink. Words. My hand. Nothing. Nothing is born. My spirit cries, and mourns over the missed muse. My little girl mocks me, she says, "So you thought you were a writer? Where is your book? Where are your fans?" Come on, artist that hides in her cluttered closet of secrets and sins. Smoke another cigarette. Think more of why you're such a mess. Nothing is born. And to be reborn seems a million years away. I was once shivering in warm water while the warm tears stained my face. I went under, the crowd applauded my new found hope. I raised my hand in the air and shouted His name, for He gave me a fresh start. But it never stopped me from falling to the bottom of a blood-clogged rig. It never washed away the doom and despair. Was it real? Then there was the night that I sat up in my bed during the witching hour. I felt His hand upon my breast, shielding the heart that pounded within, tattooing His name. I remember the warm tears again. I remember my smile, for I felt His light radiate upon my face. I heard him for the first time. All was sound. I was loved deeply, so deeply that it hurt. I was granted the biggest gift a sad girl like me could ever receive, for He knew my sorrow. More would come as I entered a new place inwardly. Then came the night that He shook my body, and had His way. Amazing. Unforgettable. It was real. Something was born.