Thus the colors all ran dry,
the creative potential lay dormant once more.
Yet were it all to be done again would anything venture a change?
Would my hand be pushed anew?
Oh, for the chance to right the wrong and feel the glories past.
To never stop the color's flow, morning, noon, and night!
My memories take flight!
I sit in confusion and stare beyond into nothingness;
patterns once there - gone; the only color night.
I fell no pity for myself - in fact I feel no more!
This block - this block has taken me; it will not let me go!
To break free of this wicked white knuckle grip that strangles me -
the leash about my soul!
Father; Dear Father, I beg of thee! - give me back my meaning!
The reason you created me was for me to create for you!
Let me claw my way through this coffin - life; and make my peace within!
Please Father! - give me back my creativity so I may start again!