You cannot produce new words

while you remain there,

hopelessly tangled in the old,

suffocating under trips of the tongue,

awkward pauses, and mispronunciations.

You must shed off that crystallized ink,

a dim exoskeleton, each and every morning,

acknowledging that you have grown

too capacious for your modest home.

It is only then that the writing can begin,

the wordsmithing, the storyweaving.