I've been feeling the itch to write a poem but there isn't much left on the surface for me to comb. I think the problem is that I feel too at ease within my own home, nothing tragic has happened so my skin feels so securely fastened that nothing can access the workings of my inner axis. I want to cut the straps and let everything fall to the floor, I want so much for my guts to push against the closet doors so my skeletons can adore the metaphorical gore and reach out to feel for more. What i need is for the pain to come back, a crow to seek out the dove and commit a passionate attack. I desperately need that confinement to feel the claustrophobic sense of pleasure in every tightening breath while I scratch and scratch at the surface until my nails are ****** and cracked. Everything has gotten dry and stale, I hope for something to block up my tracks and make my mind derail.