What it's like.

My heart sings poetry,
but my brain can't motivate me
to get dressed
hand and pen pressed
to paper fated
to wait with bated
breath.
I'm so tired
of all the liars
singing in my head.
If I could be free of them--
these ravenous thoughts--
I count to ten,
look again,
I see them still:
Those dark sentient
beasts
that only I can
kill.