The words are still there. They always are, they always will be floating in endless circles around my mind. But sometimes the connection between the words and my hand is muddled, tangled, clogged. The words stick together incoherently on the page when my hand manages to scribble down a measly sentence or two. Worse still is when I cannot persuade my fingers to type, write, or create anything at all. Focus eludes me. Inspiration is locked behind my forehead or creeps silently outside my door. I'm stuck. The words are sticky and I must wait until the fog clears and I can once again paint my perspective down upon a page. 

Once upon a field of snow

I wandered aimlessly, feeling low, 

My memories of days gone by

When sleds would soar and laughter fly, 

When mittens would mold a ball

Of white expectations and let it fall 

Upon my companions near and far,

Never guessing memories would leave a scar. 

Once 'twas a slabbery eve,

With muppies memming in the vray;

But with a grap of the mimsy's freeve, 

All mum tod the farrowy wray. 

The mimsy murled a tale so rabber

Her children pripped their jummies tight. 

For mimsy spoke of the mabbergabber,

Who stole jummies away at night. 

"But fear not the mabbergabber, my loves,

With its rurling eyes and mipping teeth.

Fear not the grutterer or the scalding froves 

Of the hertrum or the mickled yeeth."

"Oh mimsy but we are so ruckled with 

Fears about the mabbergabber's murrack. 

How can we sleep with morrid slith

Creeting through our reets and back?" 

"My sweet mumblebeats, I will always be

Near to troddle the door and lig the mert.

Sleep well my yammerloves and cree 

For you, tueling yoves, will never be hurt."