Can’t

I want to write poems
of hope and inspiration.
poetry that wields
power and strength.

But all that comes
from my pen
touching paper,
is fragments
of feelings deep
in the hollow
of my heart.

Those dark,
unwanted thoughts
that tease my body
into insomnia
and fester
into jagged
emotions scrambled
all over my face.

I can’t be at peace.
I can’t be me.
I can’t-
be.

now

the piercingly sharp
teeth of my mind’s
mouth persistently
snap and snarl
in the face
of my weakening
spirit.

self-
loathing.
deprecation.
unappreciation.

my brain won’t
quiet itself
but my heart
is too numb now
to fight the noise.