I'm getting older. The stories inside,

The great inkwells that once ran so deep, have begun to dry up. How can 

That be? There used to be

Stories bursting from me with the force

Of a swelling wave and words

That ran from my fingertips in a never ending stream. I used to

Sit on my bed, still my insides, and listen

To the words inside me. 

Then they'd dance onto a page.

Now Lake Lauren is dry.

Empty as an essay on algebraic equations. As

An orphan's stomach

On a cold winter night. As pages

Of flowery prose expressing a kernel of meaning.

Can you help me?

Uproot the deep peace and stillness

Of waving trees and transplant them in my heart.

Take the ambition of an olympic athlete

And let it flood my boodstream.

Words ARE in my blood. They are my magic.

I've just lost

Some of that magic since my childhood. 

Remind me to just listen. The magic's still inside. 

it is me. I am the magic.

Listen to my magic I spill

On this mess of a page.

Hear the real me - the deepest, most crystalized cries

Of me.

Hear the humanity and

Find it echoed in your eyes.

I am a poet and an author.

Words are my soul.