I'm stuck
and my poetry
reflects it
life is getting
a little stagnant
and when you aren't
living well
you aren't
writing well
and it burns in my stomach
and aches in my head
because I know
how much there needs
to be said
how much I've got to
let out
before I lose it
and go mad
maybe already lost it
and its already gone
and this is only the
repercussion
only the consequence
I'm not sure
but I need
to figure out
a way to
create again
a way to
live again
before it's too late
and all of those
books
and poems
and *******
good for nothing
pages
go unread
and unwritten
and my name goes
unknown
sprinting headfirst
into the callous, crowded everything
of forever