Writers Block

The pen felt odd in my hand, as I scribbled feverishly in the old leather-bound notebook my grandfather had left behind. I glanced down at the slightly yellowed page; the indigo ink had smeared from the perspiration my hand had left. I wiped my brow and looked again at what I had so hastily written:

Sometimes I wake to watch you sleep
To see the angles fall like rain
That rest by your side
And feel your warm breath against my chest
The look of peace upon your face
And distant yet familiar smile….

The ennui seemed to have permiated my very being. I stared again, at the clumsy words, but nothing more would come.