Yet I write

I write of not being able to write
Of not finding words, of staring at a blank page, of internalizing my fears
My predicament hides a silent evil gnawing at my skin, permeating into my bones
My free verse slowly peeks from under a blanket and blinks an eye of disapproval

With every long breath I draw, I see flashes of being thrown into a room replete with grotesque strangers
With every stifled scream, I see them, you, and some more leaving my pathetic little tent of ordinariness
Yes, I want to be made to feel special because I need more reasons to stand up
Aye, I want to wear a crown because I've worn it earlier and it whispered wondrous love into my ears

The handle to my door of solitude seems to have caught voluntary rust
The rags to my carpet of closeted adventures are tearing off one thread at a time
The twigs of my happy nest are flying away to an uninformed, puzzling territory
And I—well, I sit on a tree with raging fire, unforgiving waves, and tempestuous winds calling out to me

So tonight, I wrestle myself free of metaphors and similies
I float on a cloud with my battered but hopeful spirit
And I write of not being able to write
Or I write of everything but.