Ink to paper:
a simple thing to most,
but I struggle with more than that most days
I sit in a constant battle of wills
both of which are my own
conflicting and demanding my attention
I do not feed it
still I watch it grow--
ever encompassing, abundant
I try to move, but I still sit
stuck to the fabric of my bed sheets
my flesh becoming one with the fibers until I am truly trapped
in this battle of wills,
I do my best not to become complacent as complacency always leads to depression
and while we have been much more than strong acquaintances,
neither friend nor enemy quite seem to fit

It's difficult to describe the emotions tandem with its presence--
upsetting to say the least--
but anger and fear come close

Still, I try to leave the tangle of my bed sheets,
fibers pulling at my skin,
ink willing my hand to write, my mind to steady, and my feet to move.