Poetic Constipation

I sometimes fear
That the poetic artery
Which I tapped into
Will someday dry up
And I will have
Nothing left to say.
There is an even
Greater fear
That if I stopped writing
For more than
A moment or two,
The magic might vanish
And never be found again.
I suppose the poetic urge
Waxes and wanes,
But for a while
My narratives had been
Few and far between
And it had me concerned.
It turned out to be
A bad case of
Poetic constipation.
The ideas were accumulating
In my head,
Building up pressure
To be released,
But I held them in
Until I could hold
No longer,
Then suddenly,
As natural as passing wind,
They gushed out
In an explosive torrent
That littered the floor
With pages spent,
Relieving the tension
That had nourished
My insecurity.