the main problem is
that i don't know what the problem is.

if i knew what was wrong,
i could excavate it from my mind,
scream it onto paper,
carve it into walls,
spit out raw rhymes and rhythms,

write it out.


purge.

(catharsis.)

as it is, all i can do is
rant about how i can't rant,
which is
surprisingly
ineffective.

i wanted to run after you, it's true--
cling to you like heartbreak
(that's forever)
and sob until i collapsed in your arms,
weak with dehydration and
needier than ever.

(romantic, isn't it.)

unfortunately, i look terrible when i cry,
so that is right out.

besides, i'm sure you have
more than enough on your plate,
and no-one ever wants a serving of
mildly hysterical teenage girl.

(not even on the side.)

so what's the point of this?
one that is significantly less noticeable
than one that may reside in anything else i create:
... and i would tell you, but
it's a secret.

(what a conclusion.)