Writer's Block

I knew it sweetly, sweetly. I felt a jolt, when words became my enemy. I rejoiced in a poet's fashion, dancing madly into the hazy smoke sprouting from my palm. That day, oh such an ugly twilight it was when the stubborn whispers belonging to my ears exploded with envy and invaded my conscious with a hatred for syllables. I weeped at the bitterness that blinked to and fro bringing about an early Christmas with wet, salty presents hidden beneath my baby hairs, falling just for me and plummeting in a motion that cornered me against the fake stone. That was the second my body was trapped upside down, and my soul beaten against the clock traditionally tugged counterclockwise between the hands of time...lost in my own damned head. Ironically, I could all but wriggle underneath the weight of my own ingeniousness. That day was full of passion and longing for the sensual erotic rush of an old fashioned mind fuck, a stimulation, anything to break the iron gates trapping my crown! But I could not grasp the request until I inhaled the shadows of a passing sunset, and regurgitated a heavenly sigh filled with hopes of a better sunrise. Ay me, I drank in the rays of gold and silver and held it within my throat like the first gulp of water from a thousand years of drought. The texture was so pure, I wouldn't dare give it passage to my stomach until ever element was sucked dry, and dust was only left to gather against the plumped satisfaction within the pores of my tongue. And when I began to speak, all of the happiness and joy that I had grown adoration for burst through my lungs, claimed my pen, and whispered sweet nothings against the chalky cold of my paper. I was alive and well...I was freed, and flying high with my beloved wings of essential letters and splurging over cosmic bounties of conjunctions, marveling at the nearly forgotten beauty brought upon by my first love. I was back, and all I simply cared to do for the rest of my forgotten days...was write.