I have so much to say.
Too much.

These words; these perfect vessels I have upon the page,
They should work.
They would work,
But me and my vile Mind have other ideas.

“It must be perfect.
Your poetry has to be perfect, beautiful and convoluted for you to be proud of it.”
In my skull there is a ****.

So much is secured for it cannot satisfy. So much not said.
Even this poem is garbage to me through my strainer of acceptability from truth. A filthy clump of straightforward letters without metaphor. It hate it. I hate this poem as I hate most,
All of which I want to desperately to write about.
Always stopping myself.

I WANT IT OUT!
GET OUT OF MY ******* MIND YOU FILTHY STAINS OF SHITTHOUGHT, HOPE AND HATE!
But my hand will not except the pen,
And I am left only with my vile Mind.