When One Is Too Crippled to Write.

Artwritus is a terrible thing,

a chronic pain that

hunches our shoulders

challenges our very soul

over the very keys to could heal it.

We consult dictionary's

with blind stabs,

at any anonymous word

hoping for a spark of heat,

to relieve the frozen

muscles in our hands.

But perhaps it is

God's way of humbling us,

a period of time

to look at the world

without the rainbow tinted

glasses we were granted.

To see life much like

the masses around us,

starving for a dream,

and to know the lack

expressing our pain

and joy with ease.

Then we truly begin

to appreciate the gift,

and what we write next

can hold a brilliance

that shines like gold

far beyond iconic trophies.

One might try the balm

of a breezy summer day,

lie in a meadow and

study the underworld,

all those tiny creatures

scurrying for survival,

then pen a tale of a slug

or winged plant-hopper.

Or simply seek to

heal others in a visit

to a V.A. hospital,

or a nursing home,

stare into the eyes

of true chronic pain.

Bring old paperbacks

and toiletries,

to add a bit of poetry

to their world,

and then chronicle

one of their stories.

Usually life brings us

a cause that moves us

to reach and

touch the multitudes,

tragedy in our own lives,

or great happiness,

but we are like books,

and even the best novels,

have pages that c

an bore to tears.

Artwritus is temporary,

there is no Urgi-care

to treat it,
no E.R. to patch

our gaping thoughts,

but we do heal,

and write art again.

This then is my

band-aid to you,

some ancient advice

wrought by

the thought of your pain,

I hope in some

small way it helps,

for I have known Artwritus,

it is malady I too

have fought to shake,

Thus I can only

wish you well

and Godspeed on

your return to the words,

that currently are denied you.

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