Sometimes I feel like

angry words slipping out of a pen

(that trembles in the hand

that clutches at half-truths,

that plague the conscience

of a half-formed youth)

showering and cascading

in a greyscaled rainbow,

in much the same way as a therapist says,

"Writing is good for releasing trauma."

So sometimes I feel like

pent-up frustration

skimming crinkled yellow pages.

And frustration flies

on wings that drag more than lift

(the pen)

so the words become more like

black holes of inkstains --

colliding planets of rips and tears --

mountainous valleys of jagged screams --

in the universe

that is my scrap of paper.

So sometimes I feel like 

an overworked eraser

that fixes mistakes,

that adds another smudge 

to its collection of scars

So sometimes I feel like

a filthy little eraser because

well

no eraser

is ever

clean --

So sometimes

(all the time)

i feel like

(pathetic)

(tainted)

(disappointment)

a writer searching for a euphemism

that covers the thorns

that makes the story seem...

acceptable

(when it's not)

so sometimes i feel like

like

a new word that sums up everything bad

like

carelessstuckupstupidwhycan'tyoudoanythingright

like that

so sometimes i feel

like

i don't even know any more

where i am going

and the words aren't helping

where am i going?

and the words aren't

enough

so sometimes i feel 

like

a whirling supernova of words

aren't even enough

because i can't

speak 

with them

so sometimes i --

God

-- don't make sense --

why

are these words not enough

well

it's probably because i'm

(insert new word here)

and i th ink my pen

agre es

bec  ause      i    t

do esn't wa

nt y   o u

to see

th

at i