(Frustration)
It's not working,
all this grinding of the
literical wheel.
Push push slide.
Trying to find
a part of me
from the deep;
inside.
Something pulled out and
penned, something to like,
to love, to call my own and wear
with pride.
It's not working tonight.

All that's left is the taste of
too much tobacco
high and dry in my palate.
All thats left is an empty milk bottle
and not enough black coffee in the world
to wire open my eyes.

These pages are lies
the minute they leave my fingertips.
The words are fleeting
These feelings brief

There is only grief
for the loss of my tongue
when i need it the most.
When i need it to speak
from my heart
despite not hearing
it beat.

Helpless
speechless
Doubtless wasting
my time.