Inkwell

I used to dip my pen deep

down my throat and into the heart

to draw the ink that would write stories,

poems and essays, and create the worlds

that were more than this one ever was.

It was an inkwell that seemed to never fail

sending it’s blood through my veins so strong

that I used to see it beneath my skin,

moving thick, dark, and cool.

I would marvel at the ease with which the letters came

only occasionally choking on a phrase

and coughing like you do when something

goes down your throat the wrong way,

and I would crumple the paper

or highlight the page

and delete

dip the pen again

and repeat

But these last several weeks

the inkwell seems to have lost its life

and my pen, no matter how deep I dig

can’t find the ink I need

so I’m here

with seventeen pages of only a few sentences each

scraping at these drying veins

when I should be fast asleep.