(incomplete poem)

I stare at the blank, grey wall.

A metaphor on the tip of my tongue

"Shoot, writer's block."

I sit in front of this screen, fingers resting on the keyboard.

Again and again, I think I've run out of words.

I listen to Frank Ocean or Billie Eilish,

And feel the words flowing through my veins

I feel the lyrics all over, and it makes me warm inside.

But I can't form cohesive thoughts good enough to be called a poem.

I'm too busy thinking about how much of a screw up I am,

Or how badly this week went.

I can't stop thinking of the ridiculous, hate-filled look that my ex-best friend gave me.

The one I laughed at, but that secretly tore me up inside.

How was I supposed to know it would go this badly?

I feel that heavy feeling fall upon my chest for the fourth time in the last hour,

My breathing becomes ragged, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to rid myself of the idiotic tears that are forming within them.

I hate that I had to lie to my own mother because I felt like too much of a burden to tell her how I really felt.

But writing takes all the pain away, for the most part.

I need something to take my mind off of all of this, but I can't do it.

My eyes are heavy and tear-filled, and my head feels like it's filled with lead.

I should sleep now, but the thoughts I cannot seem to put into words flood my head, keeping me awake.