Up the Sunbeam

-- I can hear the telltale clanking. The monkey wrench has been thrown into the machinery again. The gears are grinding to a halt, and the flow of words has stopped. I keep anxiously watching like a weary traveler waiting at an empty baggage claim for bags that do not come. I wish I could see down the chute and open everything up to fix the problem. I wish it was as easy to focus my thoughts as it is to focus my camera. I flit and flutter, scanning my mind for an idea, just one good idea, to perch upon.  Where, oh where are the words hiding? Why won't they show themselves? What have I done to chase them away, and what can I do to bring them back? Are they alive and green somewhere under the frosty cold? What if I've already written everything I know? What if there are no more good ideas? What if nothing I say is original or creative or special? What if the keys have gone silent for the last time? Wistful wishes, wretched what if's, mixed up image...