ice ... ice ... ice ... ice
Nothing. De nada.
Zilch. Zero.
My creativity's out to lunch,
just as it has been for 18 months.

I don't know what to do.

I'm scared, you know.
Words are my rock,
my port in a stormy sea.
I am stuck in the ice
and it ain't very nice.

I don't know what to do.

I've looked in here
and I've looked over there.
It's like I've died a death.
My heart is beating
and I'm still eating.

I don't know what to do.

Perhaps I should turn
my face to the sun
and bathe in its warming light.
Maybe that will reignite the flame,
melt the ice and I will write once again.

Yes...now I know what to do.