the ice jam of words long lodged at the back of my throat has begun to melt syllable by delicious syllable that tickle going down

Reclaiming my inner badass at 50
the ice jam of words long lodged at the back of my throat has begun to melt syllable by delicious syllable that tickle going down
blank screen looks reproachfully at me You are a writer the blinking cursor states So write I rub stiff hands tender wrists sore knees knead
words and phrases lay abandoned on every flat surface and on the floor below me so much glittering confetti that crunches under my bare feet
i am looking for poetry in every day objects the story unfolding in the pulse of a day i am looking for beauty in the
I want to fall in love with words again roll them sensuously around my mouth caress them slowly with teeth with tongue before I swallow
Blank screen looks reproachfully at me You are a writer it says So write I rub stiff hands Tender wrists Sore knees Knead knots in
the ice jam of words long lodged in the back of my throat has begun to melt syllable by delicious syllable that tickle going down
blank canvas of my writer’s mind no gleaming white pristine expanse awaiting masterly placement of one delicate brushstroke syllable after another ferocious wave of
The blank screen looms large stark cold reproachful the curser blinks steadily rapid fire pulse on a heart monitor reflecting heightened anxiety signal light before