Slow Motion

My slow pen and my slow pick
pointing up my lack of creativity
do I really have nothing to say?

Or is it rather an affliction of spirit
pulling my cards closer to the vest?
glued lips and stricken hands

Some things are only alive on the inside
once they hit the air and the light
you find they weren't what you thought

The magicless wonderless jewel of your soul
lying on the page or hanging in the air
as you grow smaller and smaller

JG said "perhaps they're better left unsung"
but I should let it rip anyway
I don't have any water to ripple

My words hitting the ground with a thud
my cupid's arrow, thick and chunky
block leading home at 9.8 m/sec 2