Writing.

I keep trying, trying and trying and trying, and yet, still, I cannot write a damn word that I want to. I have so many poems stuck in my head, blocked from the world, and they're all jumbled up in my mind and my heart and yearning to be written. But I can't. I try, I do try. But I can't.

I have random lines sketched all over my notebook, but still, nothing works. Nothing I write are the words that I want. I'm getting tired of it, but still I try. Here a line, there a phrase. I read so much else, hoping for something to spark that perfect word and set it all in motion. I listen to music all day, wishing something will make me see the poem I keep missing.

But it eludes me. That poem. It eludes me, as everything else does. And I am getting tired of it. I am getting annoyed, and frustrated, and depressed, and desperate, and just plain tired. Exhausted. Bone-weary. Where is the vision, the clarity of sight, that I have so dearly missed? Crushed beneath the steel-toe boots he insists on wearing specifically for me. And who is he? I don't know. I ask myself, and I don't know. I ask, and try, and fail, over and over again. It's starting to feel unstoppable, inevitable.