For when I don't feel like writing

Words used to come from me
like water pours from a faucet,
as if my insides weren't
flesh and blood and bones, but
letters, waiting to be delicately sewn
into a definition for everything I felt.
Then suddenly, a drought.

When I first stopped writing as voraciously as I used to, I thought it meant I wasn't a real writer. Or maybe, that I'd never been a real writer. When my blog didn't turn into a money maker and when nothing I wrote went viral, I wondered if it meant that I wasn't a good writer. I wondered how I was supposed to make sense of my life if there wasn't some constant poetic capture of what was happening. But then, as suddenly as the words stopped, they came again, and I realized that writer's block isn't so much the absence of words from my body as it is the inclusion of everything else. All those things, for all those years, that writing defined, started defining themselves.

That's an okay way to be, I think.