This happens.  Or at least it happens to me.  When it comes to writing, the writing I post here, the writing I do to feed the part of me that writes, I don’t actually worry too much about writer’s block.  It comes, and it will pass.  But this part of me isn’t compartmentalized.  This creative part of me is connected to my preaching, to my ability to continue to nurture and care for the people around me.  So when the writing stops, not slows down, or just doesn’t get posted, but stops, I worry.  Not that I won’t be able to do the preaching and the caring, but that if I have to start working harder to do them, the energy will have to come from somewhere.  And there just aren’t a lot of somewheres in my life right now.

It’s never that the words aren’t there
Sometimes it’s that they dance just out of my reach
Taunting me with their inaccessibility
Sometimes it’s they way they refuse to string together
Like beads on a string that is too wide
and I have lost the one talent I possess
Sometimes it is merely that I am moving too fast to find them,
Laying hidden amongst the banality of my days
Other times it is the stress or the sleep, or both, that blinds me
Most often, though, there is no reason I can point to,
Nothing I can blame, or know how to change,
For in every situation I would blame, I have, in past days
Written, with emotion and eloquence,
Leaving me with no strategy to find
No method to taking the scraps of paper and words
And coaxing them to communicate with the world, or even me
So I find myself staring at pen and paper, screen and keyboard
Remembering when these were mediums, tools, that I could use,
Remembering when I could write.

written 6-7-2010

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