what do i do when i can't write.
what do i do when the morning stars are glowing, fading in the slowly emptying sky 
and yet my fingers, body, heart, mind 
are craving to write with a burning possession such as that of the Morningstar himself 
the words that are my only possession, my fingers are prowling the keys just attempting
to put forth something valuable only to mark themselves as howling, hungry, weakened beasts 
what do i do when i cannot seem to think of what to write, 
and yet my being is encompassed with an urge to do that very thing so powerful i feel i might break, 
a feeling that all will be well and the well inside would be filled and healed and it could, it would just feel right 
what do i do when i can't write. 
when all i seem to do is increase the weight in my chest until it's so heavy it's impossible not to drag myself down 
what do i do when i hear the howling in the trees,
never knowing what lies beneath, 
only that it's danger 
and that i'm safe in my home 
and yet the poor creatures beside those sounds are not. 
what do i do when i cannot fathom that an idea would spark, that my fingers will glide and touch the right places because
all the right places have seemed wrong once before, 
and as long as the opposite is true, i must control them myself 
why is it easier to let instinct control me when i know it will steer me wrong 
than to have conscious effort of what i know i am doing, and yet so fearful i will prey upon myself 
what do i do when i can't write. 
i can't write because of the holy idea of perfection, and the horrible truth of failure 
i cannot write so long as i am standing in the way of myself, split in two pieces 
racing to go back to one another in a way that makes it impossible. 
what do i do when i can't write 
for when i cannot write, 
i cannot right. 
what do i do when the idea of honesty is as perpetual as lies, neither fail to exist yet one could not without the other 
and that is the flaw in the system 
that is where perfection is impossible because
perfection is an entirety of flawlessness
but flawlessness cannot exist without the innate nature of mistakes. 
you cannot read a love story backward and retain its happy ending 
if the beginning is tragic, the ending will be also. 
and that is why 
i can't write. 
i cannot find the courage and audacity to do such a thing, such a beautiful, perfect thing 
such a horrible and heartbreaking and sickening, saddening thing 
the pressure of my own body can't allow it 
and so,
in the spirit of being a wordsmith, i will continue to tell myself 
i can't write.