Writer's Bloc

A straining, fat water balloon,
Like a plump raisin,
Cooked and ready to explode
Words like champagne,
Being shaken in a bottle.
On the threshold of a cataclysm.
The last leg of a silent race.
The tip of the pen, like a bee hive.
Buzzing with activity.
Nothing leaving save the few hesitant words.
Like a bee swerving to avoid a neighbor.
A sense of anticipation,
Feel a tingling in the entire mid section of your body.
Slowly pulling the finger out of the hole in the dam,
As the cracks spread across it,
Like a mad, spreading tree root.
The pit of your stomach,
An endless burrow of activity.
And your hand, a sentry with a stay order.