Written by Danielle E. Pasqua
Copyright © January 3, 2020
All writers suffer
From a frozen hand
Even if they make
Their plan
To write until dawn
Never taking one yawn
But then the ice age
Of the writer hits
And its pain
Is one they can’t forgive
It then won’t move at all
And it stands still in time
To loosen its joints
Is the only thing
That the writer has in mind
But every writer knows
Once the creative temperature will rise
Then the hands will be liquid, not ice
Soon it will warm like a tropical ocean
Every idea that the writer has will flood open
Then the poetry they make will remain unbroken