Writers block

The words.

They're bottled up, hidden below a veil of emotion, and corked with a stubborn clog of time. They long to be free, but they haven't quite matured enough to find their own way, their own place. So they wait, and wait, and wait-- until it seems as though they will never be free, never be rid of my contradicting vices. It's not that I don't want them to be free; rather, I don't want to lose them. I want to keep them close, until they have grown to the stature of their full potential.

But instead, they wither inside my tightening heart, and fight against my agonized soul. They can hardly stand the small corners of my mind, and claim injustice in my keeping them there. It's selfish of me, I know. I should free the words, free my mind. But I can't. I simply can't.

Clammy hands reach for pencils that have no point, and dried-out pens that will never write again. No, they don't reach. They clamor. There is a longing in those hands, just as there is a longing in that heart. It must be free; from the words it must be free.

But these lines! These intersecting lines that create the letters that create the words. It is all too much to handle, too much to preserve. My fingers ache from effort, as does my mind and soul. With the words, they are one; but alone, they are nothing at all.

Nothing. Exactly how I feel now. Nothing, empty. Drained of life. Drained of words.

Because the words, the words are life; and in their absence there is darkness. Even death.