I wish I knew words.

Gone dead.

I need to carry notes, fill my backpack with thoughts and scribble down ramblings on the side walks, trains, among the people. I seem to clear out my mind and toss it along side the rubbish once I step through that front door and enter this dark, desolate apartment. I end up feeling restless and creatively unsatisfied, chewing at my finger nails, ripping the papillae from my tongues tip and shoving my fist down my own throat to try to pull up words. I end up retching and feeling my insides heave leaving behind nothing but damp beneath my feet and an apathetic me, lifelessly drooling. I’m never satisfied. My words have never lived up to my own expectations. I should probably stop chewing my nails.