Inkwell

I used to dip my pen deep
  down my throat and into the heart
to draw the ink that would write stories,
poems and essays, and create the worlds
  that were more than this one ever was.

It was an inkwell that seemed to never fail
  sending it’s blood through my veins so strongly
that I used to see it beneath my skin,
moving thick, dark, and cool.

I would marvel at the ease with which the letters came
  only occasionally choking on a phrase
and coughing like you do when something
goes down your throat the wrong way,
  and I would crumple the paper
or highlight the page
and delete
dip the pen again
and repeat

But these last several weeks
the inkwell seems to have lost its life
and my pen, no matter how deep I dig
  can’t find the ink I need
so I’m here
with seventeen pages of only a few sentences each
scraping at these drying veins
when I should be fast asleep.