I'm feeling like the ink is running out of my pen. I put the tip on the page, but all I get is some funky looking ink blob. Like those ink blots they use in a therapy session. So what do you see in this amorphous blob of ink?? I haven't been able to write good poetry in so long. I just wish the lines would start flowing again. It's like someone has dammed up my inspiration river without telling me. I was floating along just fine and then the river turned into a trickle, and now I'm stuck in the mud. The silty residue. What to do? I can't just step out of the boat and start walking. The goo of laziness will suck me into its depths. It will forever hinder what meager efforts at creativity I attempted. But what's the pont in sitting around? I can't just wait for the engineers to discover their mistake. "Oh, I'm sorry We must have dammed up the wrong river. Our apologies." It doesn't happen like that. To regain control of the inspirational river, to un-dam its miraculous girth takes perserverance, and a want to free it. Where in me is the ability to take on such a grand task? Sure one small hole in the dam is all it takes, but aim and skills are needed that are far beyond what I can do. I'm just not going to give up now...
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