My writing once flowed like fresh tears chasing each other down blotchy cheeks, unspeakable sorrow etched in the shadows of smile lines.

Words once arose at my every beckon, like a puppy to its owner.

Once, I could sit down and dream, my adolescent imagination trickling into paper and ink.

Once, these hands breathed life into a keyboard, stories and scenes dripping from my very skin.

Now my visions cling like clammy palms wiped on satin dresses, drops of sweat sticking stubbornly to flesh as ideas do to my fingertips.

What I would give to wield that power once more.