Beneath My Skin

Months, since the pen was lifted
The first few strokes, dry and inkless
A slight indent on the page
etched by the rusty fountain edge.

The mind behind the strokes of pen,
had all come to a parched end.
Words that flow to the ink
suddenly seem out of sync.

A cry made in desperation
amidst struggles for inspiration.
The strokes that once were familiar
no longer appear as clear.

Scratched the pen hard against the pad
Forced the remnants of ink that's left,
to ooze out in sloth and laziness,
in hope of a slumber awakened.