I want to get beneath my skin.
I want to dig under my nails,
Tear at the roots of my hair,
Claw at the soles of my hands and feet.
I want to find the words I can't express,
The feelings that sit in my stomach
That I just can't seem to throw up.
They lie just behind my fingertips,
Just behind my mouth,
At the precipice of recognition.
I just can't seem to throw them up.

I found that I cannot cry, and expect, in my tears, that a poem has been written.
Emotion, and heart, and feeling are not the only components to art,
and boy is it ******* hard to come up with the rest.
Sometimes, I’m so choked up on inspiration,
that I can’t get my figures to move well enough to type or write.
I’ll have a feeling in my head, so strong that it washes away any words for explanation.

Right now, I’m stuck, so I stumble, and I fall.
The poem collapses onto itself,
And I’m back at the beginning again.
With so much feeling and ideas.
And Nothing to show for it.

I wanted to write a poem today
The words just would not go away
None of them rhymed or went together
Random words going on forever
Follow them, see where they go
Falling down the rabbit hole
Bounce along, one, two, three
Letting thoughts run freely
Cheerful, sad and depressed
The feelings held within my breast
Let them out, let them go
That is how the story’s told

i consume the continuous days without nighttime
and greater shadows afflict mine. towards the edge
a body without mass they had no power
to gravitate towards the ground. In my throat
there's a soundless scream and an abyss of burials
no one attended. and in case the mindless tongues,
the senseless sensates, and the human brainiacs, cared
the sky would be my dance floor, and the atmosphere would still
drive me breathing it in. a mismatch of socks,
a counterclockwise swing, a cold cup of coffee,
a bullet sans its gun, and a gun with the imaginary trigger -
i am no good. i am no good.

I write, but it all seems pointless
Disjointed,
Useless, and Dejected.

This way of expression I created
Has seemed to still and stopper
A Goner.

Done for. Finished.
I used to relish the kiss of
inspiration and entanglement
into something that seemed purer
than myself

Now, my words dust on a shelf
Inspiration strikes and snaps;
disjointed and useless.

Sapped.
I find myself writing for a voice
, and musical ability, which
I do not possess

I pray I will be able to pick up a pen soon
And write away this uselessness.

Im having some writers block,
Like a killer I must stalk out my words.
Smash them together till they finally cave,
And form the Senteces I so dearly want.