Uncharted Familiarity Poem by Nessa Golden

The words...
they always flooded the page, without invite
never required coaxing, manipulation, or pressing.
Poured from fingertips that
could
not
stop

Time, stolen their voice?
Hesitation in the way they crawl, unlike a spider busy in her work
Can fingertips sputter or stutter?
The path was always dark, mysterious, and terrifying
but the walking, cathartic.

The familiar footpath worn, for sure, but somehow more haunted
and, less divine.
Stumbling, falling, and crying... all the things that bring shame,
necessary... pain, no longer the only driving whip,
disguised as love, flirtation, and magic illusion.

No, foraging through...finding a new way,
even uncertain - will the relief be the same?
Will the voice and its muse find natural spring?
Fumbling with images, with sounds, with words....
Can I ever really write again?