I signed my soul away with a 21st century John Hancock,
To get rid of stubborn, ages old writer’s block.
And now these trembling hands they do mock,
At my crooked fingers and smudged fingerprints they gawk.
On that frigid April’s night, I felt my blood running into the ink,
But I just couldn’t stop, even though I felt myself start to sink.
If only I had realized that, with every word, my heart had begun to shrivel and shrink.
If only I hadn’t destroyed my mind before I remembered I needed to think.