This block is not in my head.
It is in my heart.
Tearing at the part of me that once burned white hot.
I have lost sight of the Artist
So my words become artless…
I used to know how to do this thing.
Now I don’t have any ideas.
Why do I have this pen in my hand?
It is empty, no ink remains inside
I have lost the words I once had.
I make the lame excuses
In class, in work, in life
And it makes me sick.
The illness has blocked my mind
With distractions and panic
I feel alone in my writing.
In the past I was not so desperate.
In the past I wrote so well.
The written word used to mean so much to me,
It wasn’t just a means to an end.
It was an expression of my heart onto the page.
Stories of triumph and rage, sadness and victory.
And You were the inspiration.
I was good at it; the words you gave me flowed like a steady, pure stream.
I would sit for hours in the apartment of Mrs. Dewitt;
The old sage author who pushed me into your arms.
Beaming, she handed my stories back
With a YES underlined with loud bright red on every page.
I was not alone.
You were with me,
You were the one who asked me to write.
I had no qualms with editing my work, of doing my best for You.
I held an enjoyment of starting a new draft,
Focusing my thoughts and feelings.
Turning them from cramped and clustered
Into light and life on the page.
With every rewrite
I saw your vision for my story take shape.
The more I shaped, I grew with love and eloquence
Why can’t I edit with joy now?
I came to the city, and came into my dream.
To study and write more for You.
So much to learn, I was going to grow and grow…
And then, darkness?
No, something must have happened.
The distractions, they came.
So wrapped up in myself, my problems, my words.
My selfishness pushed You aside.
It became more about my appearance to others.
I felt like a fake if I was loud and stood out.
So I took the path all others walked on and pushed into their crowd.
So what happened to me?
Why did I stop? Why did I loose my passion?
I didn’t trust you with my pen.
I allowed something else to grow between us.
A need for acceptance.
I wanted to belong in the crowd, unnoticed
I started worrying about the opinions of men.
I became enamored with obscurity.
Of slowly disappearing.
I didn’t head your voice.
I became apathetic as I let the ink in my well dry out.
I lost sight, didn’t I? In that crowd?
Taking pride in looking like the rest.
Approving of a frantic typing for some pretender’s grade.
Trying to sound like them instead of like your child.
So I ask you again to make a place in my heart,
Wound me to heal me.
Hone my thoughts into your words once more.
I want to be loud and passionate again.
Make me your scribe, your herald, your crier.
I won’t make excuses; I will rise above the rest.
I will make your truth come forth in my words.
I will be fruitful, fearless, and fulfilled.
I will kneel at my desk and ask for You.
I will pick up my pen, knowing I’m in You.
I will focus on you as the finish, not my professor’s final marks.
No more will pages be handed in lifeless.
They will have art because I will write them for you.
There are blessings to be had when words ring true.
Writing addressed to God, others will find blessing through.
If I write to myself,
I let myself down.
But if I write to love You,
I will end up with a crown.