How can I do something that once came so instinctively? (poem)

How can I do something that once came so instinctively?

Like the beating of the heart and the blinking of the eye—

if not a crafter nor a speaker—than I am more dead than I am alive.

Like the wind dancing with the grass,

and the omen I set my eyes for.

I am one of a million others,

a grain of rice.

Whether it is input or output I must pay the price.

Suffering without my pen, where i'd much rathar suffer with,

my price is the thing that once came to me so instinctively.