i fear lacuna boring holes in eyes,
the pen in hand no longer draws meaning.
a void inverted presents my demise,
from all creation i have been weaning.

conjuring up an original thought
proves no simpler than anything before.
lack of inspiration; lust starts to clot,
innovation oozing from every pore.

racking my brain for words to fill the page.
line after line after endless blank space.
hours post-brooding, spark flies from its cage;
notions pour, ideas begin to race.

bottled emotions pour from my heartstrings,
beginning to end spilling perfect form.
the necessary release of feelings;
letting go of my own personal storm.