In my choice dismissed
By a clipped purse
of the lips --askance.
A hot ball in my belly where
My emotion roils oblique
Left with decision to tighten
Out to the right but inside
---------------
When I write this stuff it only grinds away, I'm stuck with this tightness inside, no outlet, I'm only staring at what's wrong but doing nothing. Nothing. The fear and anger part. Fear. Anger.
I hate it when I write this stuff, trying to describe myself using poetic tropes that I never fit into. That the status of my being can't fit into.
I'm feeling the broken of my record but I can't jump the grooves...only skip staccato. It hurts but not enough. And what is the payoff here? What do I win by sticking to my story?
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