I guess this isn't a poem.
I suppose this is a cry for help.
Every time I try to write,
or even just let things flow,
My mind blanks up and I cease to feel.

My emotions won't stop raging,
My screams stay high-pitched and brittle,
My mouth like to run things it's way,
Yet every time I try to write,
I cease to feel all of it.

Perhaps this is a good thing,
My lack of feelings,
The numbness, shutting down.
But I want to be in control,
I don't know how anymore.

This wasn't really a poem,
There was no rhyme, nor reason.
I finally got it out,
I remembered how it felt.
I guess this wasn't a poem,
But it was a cry for help.

I helped myself.