Can't think to form the words,
So I slam a dictionary against my head to fill it with words unsaid.

Heartbeat like headache too many distractions to form a thought.

Off the rails and agitated;
Here I go missing the point again.
Here I go trying to create something new again.

A verbal Victor Frankenstein, composite poem here I go again.

The mad wordsmith at thought's end standing on the edge as I stare out to the void on the verge of my next big break point.

Another pointless point that leads to a dead end debate between two parties who'll never admit the other is right, so what's the point of words when they all fall to the floor and shatter.

Sweep them into the dustbin and glue em back together try and lie that this time it'll be stronger.

Penned mosaic on the cutting room floor, too many themes to latch onto, this one was rushed out the door.

It flew to close to the sun and now the wax got in the way and made a mess- so as this writer plummets into writer's block sea at least let me drown along the sea of sentences that have been said by saints and sinners, who shared meals with Twain and Ginsberg.

Better to know I bled on the page and bled myself dry, I gave away all the words I had inside and now I sit thirsting for some inspiration like a poor man's Bukowski, wishing I had half the insight to see the next line and knew it was going to sound right.