I have never had to think about writing poetry. Something that once came so naturally to me now seems difficult. I have lost my signature stanza--the rhythm that makes my work good.
My time-bomb brain says: "The Lord took your poetry away. That is why everything you are putting out is terrible."
My logical brain says: "This has got to be writer's block."
I suppose we all have to pay our dues at some point.
I have lived 23 years without experiencing writer's block.
Perhaps it is my pride but I thought I was immune to this disease.
An old friend once noted: Of Arrowheads and Scissortails was my greatest accomplishment. He theorized it was because I did not care what people thought. Sometimes I miss that haughty girl--that idealist.
I find myself longing for myself back before Christ healed me: I miss my angst.
I love the Lord, and I am confident He's going to give me a new spout to draw words from--
But waiting is difficult and drawing it out pains my flesh.
I just want to write at my best again.
