A Poem Waiting to Be Born

There is a poem in me—
I must birth it to set it free.

At this moment, I cannot write.
I have been stripped of a power I’m not even sure I ever had.
Inspiration has ceased to inspire.
The muse has left the building without notice.
Luck did not show its face, did not meet me with grace.
The words do not flow, do not pour out,
though I have a burning message within,
pressing to fill the pages, overpowering their blank state.

But no—
no inspiration, no flow, no show.
It’s been 21 days, but it feels like 9 months.
Can someone, anyone, turn on the faucet,
open the waterfall of words, drench me in its river—
let even the bacteria in my gut bask in its liquid joy,
like food feeding the brain, like water absorbed by the soul,
quenching a thirst for words that carry meaning,
that convey the message I cannot hold back.

Words!—words I have buried so deep.
They lie inside, restless,
like a fetus punching, pushing, and pulling,
waiting to be born, to be freed.
I beg you—be expelled, be seen, be heard, be read, be free!

Inspiration lingers, spies on me.
It is here, in this room, hiding, laughing, mocking me—
a volatile Goddess!
Daring me to write something, anything,
without first bending the knee.

The message, like wildfire burning coal,
like a diamond in the rough,
waiting to be honed, crafted, shaped—
let the world in, let the words out.
Let every pore breathe out the message pounding from within.

There is a universe of words inside every vowel,
a madness of consonants in my head, forming sounds.
Evil witch!
I scream—There is a poem in me! I must birth it out of me!
Pull it out, even if dragged by its hair.
How unfair!

I bend the knee, Inspiration, I beg of thee—
There is a poem in me.
I must birth it out—
to be free.
Come to me.
Be the midwife, I beg of thee.