Blocked

My pen no longer bleeds,
Neither draws blood,
Its  aversion to ink is palpable,
It's weak and ineffectual,
Blank papers are a testimony,
To its incapacitated soul.
I cannot command it,
To carve out an ink trail,
When darkness abounds within,
How do I illuminate its path?
All I do is promise a little hope.
Clung to that assurance,
Everyday it subjects itself-
To a relentless struggle,
Of exhuming its old habit,
Lying lifeless in the coffin,
Wrapped in the shroud,
Of indifferent inspiration.
Chandni.