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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.

faithon writing and wordslyric

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