The words that have once traveled

So easily from my rushing mind,

Down to my scribbling hands,

To the running pencil,

And and into markings apon

A blank piece of parchment;

Now I struggle to think of words

That used to come to me

As easily as breath.

How can this be?

How is it that I can no longer

Write what I wish to,

And now only

Write what others

Want of me?

Is this what my mind

Has come to?

A limb controlled by

A puppeteer's strings,

The pen grasped by

A hand that is no longer

My own?

If this is what

I have become,

Let me remove my limbs,

So I can then have

My head once again

Resting apon my


Let my mind return to me,

Even if it costs me

The arm that holds

My heart.