Is it just I who gets that anxious, squirming Sensational feeling? Like creativity suppressed— But by what? My faults? The fates? My own self For I cannot convey how positively debilitating, Paralyzing, transfixing— I don’t want to live in subdued twilight, Sedated by my own ideas of inabilities, But who or what, or what in me Can prevent even the faintest of hindrances From annihilating the depth of my inspirational understanding… I’m yet to discern any of the undetectable barriers Or is it that—metaphysics? So engrossed, preoccupied, wearied by what The idea that there’s something Anything at all, preventing the finesse As here I cogitate Dimensions past me...