Spout It Out

Words used to pour out of my fingertips. Unfiltered, rusty words. The source of the words must have dried up recently, as my fingers only seem to be capable of coughing up dust. I hear the pipes rattling and moaning. I am half-expecting a spurt of letters to rush out and surprise me. I crack my knuckles, turn the knob off, then back on. Off and on. Another moan. Things just might be happening. A trickle of letters has already formed a puddle of words. It's not much, but its something.