Forgotten poetry

When I pick up my pen it stutters, when i open a blank page it mutters "louder" i shout and it freezes and closes "louder" and my brain mutes "what more do you want from me" less, we want less,

I guess I'm succumbing to this poison again. I guess my blood is meant to be built from iron and wilting petals. so strong and so fragile, i guess i am supposed to bathe in duality. why is there no middle ground? no putty with red ink? no audience to give an apology?

My mind is in a strange place, all needles with no thread, i feel directionless. there is pure intention, angelic light as we speak, but somewhere along the way the darkness bends the needles into themselves