If I'm still around to hear you

Mouth and mind disconnected,
As if infected by some strange disease.
Words once as numerous as the stars,
Leave me to stand alone in the darkness.
Words leap off the page and vanish.
My creativity famished, and my pantry empty.
What’s a writer to do, when the ink’s run dry?
And I have nothing but tears to wet his pen with.

Readers wait in earnest expectation.
I ball my fists in frustration, as I hand out excuses.
Denial compels me to struggle on,
It can’t all be gone. I’m just not trying hard enough.
Yet reality stands like a knife.
Poised to take my life, as payment for my failure.
These very words my final hope.
Written in sweat and blood upon this paper.

Tell me that you love it later,
If I’m still around to hear you.