FUCK

I mean who knows.

FUCK
I feel like I need to write
Like words are stuck in the back of my throat
Ever lingering, like the taste of bile from one to many drinks

I can't think
They aren't forming into coherent sentences
No Prose
No Poem
Nothing but the sickly sweet sensation of terror creeping up my spine

I can't pin them down
No matter how I chase them, net in hand I can not seem to make them stay
I've started so many things and let them fall to the way side

Change is ever coming
ebb and flow against the constants of my soul
A tide not controlled by the moon, but swayed by a variety of unexplainable variables

Nothing has stayed the same
Nothing will stay the same

What if this claustrophobic feeling of words trapped inside of me never leaves
If I can't pour them out from my hands onto paper than what will I be?

A washed up has been with an English degree who cant fathom an idea into existence.

FUCK

Its still there the feeling like I'm choking but no matter what I do I can't come up for air.