Relate Able

My creativity is locked in a box with a couple of locks, except for the two socks I wear that don’t match each other.

My writing sticks licks of words off of a tongue to a letter addressed to anyone who will read it.

My letter won’t be sent for I am spent, descended into a sentient tornado of self doubt, anguished from old scars on grey matter marred, capitulating to stipulation after stipulation after stipulation that there’s no elation in relating to or from the human experience, because all the letters have been written before in words written before in stories written before and to add one more is an eye sore poorly sorted in saturated porridge without differentiation between one oat and another, for any quivering delivery of anything I’ve written is just an invitation to defile my diction, exorcise my expression, sear my soul with vitriol from who knows what sad sick unforgiving twist of self-contempt elected worthy of projection.

If a tree falls in a forest, who gives a fuck? I’m stuck between my roots and a free place, scared both ways that they’ll either care too much, or worse that no one will care at all, but loggers only come cutting when you’re still standing tall.

Mixed-matched metaphors, “the fault is mind, not yours” pores paranoia out my pores, sweating acceptance of linguistic choices.

Unlock the box, dumping contents and context glued with saliva alive with prospects, yielding no simplifications of my creative gratification.

Dig roots deep and reach green leaves of paper enameled in expression left fluttering in the sky for all eyes eyeballing I me and my brain on display connected to feelings at bay strained from not enough love and too much rage, and though no difference will be made, the trees look no different but none are the same.