The ideas go through my head, but I can't get them out on paper. 

They destroy me from the inside, then wither away.

It kills me when they die. It kills me to not get the ideas out. 

I need them out. 

They bang in my head and in my chest. 

I listen to music to clear my head, but it doesn't work. 

The ideas festure and blacken until nothing is left. 

The ideas kill me from the inside.

They lay dormat for many days.

A new idea is born. 

The Writer's Block ends.