Thinking about that guy
How he got all rusted up
How he longed to have a heart
How he got stuck in mid-motion.

I long to write again
But like the tin man
My heart (for writing) seems lacking
Haven't I said it all?

I mean it gets old
It's no longer refreshing
Writing is a gift that seems to have peaked
Something that once flowed very well

I'm frozen up
I need some oiling
To get the process churning
Frustrating, when I want to move

But I feel stuck