about writing

And now I'm lying here again the same spot as everytime trying to make art. Trying to write down what isn't meant for words, trying to wring poetry out of myself, like out of a wet cloth. But I'm drying up, there's nothing left, but how? How can I give myself a rest, from a thing that keeps me alive, that helps me draw clear lines, beside the question, who am I? I am art, am poetry, but when my fingers get numb, and my mind won't run, like its used to, when the magic is missing, where pen and paper are kissing, when the rhyme is there, but the melody,where? But they all smile and nod, they don't see for most, that ink and paper are only a host, to heart,mind and soul, so why try so hard, to adorn my words with pieces of my heart, when no one notices it's missing, but me. And now Im lying here again, my weapon is my pen, but my fingers are numb, I can't pull the trigger, and my emotions are left for me to out figure, though I can't do it alone, when I have nothing to hone, my thoughts into words, when my mind is too heavy, and my heartbeat to steady, to make others miss a beat, when reading my poetry.