The Joy of Writing

So long I've rested beneath the soil,
hidden from the pen.

A cold blanket of writer’s block immures me.
A new day dawns; its rays paint my shallow grave with light.

Arise…
Arise out of writer’s block…

My waking head tilts;
my hands parting the walls of this prison.

The poetry of my mind splinters the coffin lid;
cleaving the clay of the earth above.

No more silence…
The bones of my hand crack as I grasp the pen to write.

This voice shall fight its rasp.
Fused eyelids shall part.

A seed gives birth deep within a crevice,
its new form crawls to the light.