There are many different kinds of it.

Mine is odd.
It's verbal
...but not.
Emotional
...but not.

Odd
because I've been on that literary cusp,
That moment of stillness right before a phrase
feathers down from my mouth with gentle harmony.
But this time something stops me.

Fear?
Anxiety?
Apprehension.

I have everything I want to say.
It's there waiting for me to father it,
but all I can utter are shallow breaths.
It's right... there.
But i'm caught in a stalemate with myself

Odd
that my heart knows how and when to react.
Like a beacon, the other calls to mine.
Like a compas, points a direct line
commanding that I follow it.
it guides me... there.
I rest immobile, unsure of how I feel.
Unable to act one way or the other.

My head, my heart.
Two loyal parts of a whole.
They speak tirelessly in each ear,
hoping to overcome the other
instead of reaching compromise.
This is limbo.