patience

sometimes
i sit and think too much, not well.

i have no Zen
my reeling emotions often overtake my insanity
my cliché’s are no longer cliché

i'm trying to again master my pen
force it to succumb to the abuse i assail upon it
again and again i force it down, but find no release.

do you have the key i seek?
i talk too much... look into my eyes. you can't see in
the shroud i have mastered

with outsides well scripted
the words i craft clues to the listener
to the truth that belies me.

try my ways, try my cracks
hold my hair back, i'll return the favor
when you face the fear that is yourself

the new blood that i seek
ripped from my soul with the words i speak
riddle you this as again i tease with promise of trust.

realism is too prosy for my poetic nature
but how can you fit content and self-loathing
inside the same creature?