A Poet's Block

Grasping at thin straws
In those darker corridors
That wind way back behind
The storefront of my mind

It's tapped and sapped
Creative juices run dry
From syrup to bitter gin
So unsure where to begin

But, reaching farther down
To rummage among the dregs
Cutting wrists on dry tears
Coal matter, thick as fears  

Past self may wear gloves
I've since been bitten
Leaked through my pores
Seizing lungs like spores

And with tremble in hand
Digging into healed scars
Dark ink hits the papers
I gasp to trap the vapors