My conductor motions for one crescendo after the next, each time falling short of a climax.
The lump in my throat is carried by Sisyphus.
How many words must I choose not to say before they finally break loose, orderlessly piling out of my mouth like a flock of schoolchildren at the start of recess?
Pen cannot be erased. but even that metaphor fails comically as my floor is littered, blanketed with wasted paper.
A canvas of my mind, full of disjointed thoughts and unfinished sentences.

Perhaps, all along, it was wrong to try forcing thеm out of my room.
And I should instead invite you in.