Wrirer’s Block

Your pen sets on the page]
ready to reveal your inner wondering
but the ink won’t flow
words are labored and forced.
You know but cannot speak,
                   you wait
and wait
for your pierced soul
                   to bleed…
for your searching spirit to call out
“I am here… I am here…
write of me…”

Hours and days
rise before you
                   almost laugh at you
still you are silent…

Then, finally,
                      you step aside and
                      the page is filled.

And you wonder
                       more about where they came from
                       than how.

Tony Sexton