it's funny how now when i pick my pen up
only for it to drain no drop of ink
not letting all this chaos out of the envelope
is now taking away my ability to think
for all these words stay jumbled in my head
creating pictures of unreal imagination
of daydreams and those moments i bled
i wish to write down this clotting confusion
yet fail i to form simple sentences
filling my bones with apprehensive
and all the while my anxiety eats me alive
i wonder without poetry how shall i survive
because without this i am fully empty
like a starving soul amongst the plenty

thoughts thought everywhere
but not a single word to write,
oh dear reader i feel i don't have long-
what a pity it is to have my plight?