Young Writers Project: Used To

I remember a time when words came easily. 
I used to know
how words worked;
how they fell from my pen like
the first tentative flakes of winter
accumulating, each one beautifuluniquespecial.
I used to know
how words hurt,
how they helped,
how they created, razed, annihilated, rebuilt,
burning a forest only
to let more plants come through the ashes, finally stretching their own leaves to the sun.
I used to know
that.
Now they blur together,
buzzing bumbling bubbling,
tickling my brain,
mixing mumbling messes
droning through me, soothing,
sliding silkily on my ears.
They used to form chains,
delicate links I formed,
something wonderful I gave shape to,
torch tip touching metal 
glowing cherry red until
something silver gives
and I have a solid circle.
But there's always a weak link.
And they multiplied.
Then only one held it all up;
one word held
the entire piece on my tongue. 
Then soon it snapped, rusty, brittle,
and everything tumbled down. 
down.
Down.
DOWN.
I was left at the bottom,
watching the words
work their way into my soul
where they found 
no place to stick to.
I used to know how that felt.