Astray

Writer's block is oft a huge problem for me, so I ramble out randomness in an attempt to conquer that wall, but find far too often that I have still failed.

I wish I could just find the words

to say what I want to say.

Everything would be simpler if

my life wasn't in constant disarray.

It's falling apart, not at the seams,

but at every touch of thread;

perhaps this morning when I woke

I should have stayed in bed.

It's simpler to hide from what you fear

and hope it goes away,

but I've found my covers are no good

at keeping my troubles at bay.

And so I write a thousand lines,

trying to find the words, instead,

but searching them out from what I write

is a task which brings me dread

Because I find, so many times,

and much to my dismay,

that my thoughts can't seem to find my pen

and instead have gone astray.