The screen glows in the dark,
A cold witness to the brewing storm inside me.
An eerie glow casted on my
Slightly contorted face,
Each exhale a silent scream
Each click a desperate plea
For coherence
For sense
For anything to make this turmoil
Understandable.
My words struggle like a faulty faucet
Unable to get something flowing out.
These fragments of feelings
I can’t quite label
Too tangled, too deafening
Too much for this blinking cursor
Type.
Delete.
The sound of the backspace key,
A hollow, repetitive click
A metronome of my failure
To bring these feelings into
Something more tangible.
I feel…
This sensation is…
No, this is not good enough—
No, that’s not it—
Delete.
My hands are already shaking
Begging for even the tiniest bit
Of clarity
But all I have are echoes.
Dark circles bloom beneath my
Blood-shot eyes
A testament to battles I’ve fought
Against
Myself,
And lost again.
My bottom lip quivers
Every word feels like treachery
A cheap stand-in for something deeper.
How do you write the weight of yearning?
How do you describe
This…
A heart that’s both
Too full and too shallow?
The blank page
And the blinking cursor
Stares back at me
As if it was mocking me,
How pathetic I am right now.
I wonder if silence is
The truest form of poetry
That I'll ever write.


what if i name it "Metaphysical Frustration Between The Lines" 😄