When I get stuck, I open this app

And let myself pour from the tip of my thumb

But a hole is a hole; a deep one, a trap

So what do you do when the words don't come?

First I fake it and take from my surroundings

I find something vibrant and functionally pretty

I stir something up that isn't astounding

But this time I'll settle for something witty

Could this inspire? This placebo of a thought?

Could what I've written produce something more?

Not really, as now I smell my mind rot

And there's no point in thinking with nothing to think for

So I scrap that and wait another day

Praying for the return of my humanity

Maybe the numbness will fade away

And I'll whistle the song of insanity

In the light of day, I sit back down

And scan my conscious for something to use

Anything at all; a verb, a noun

Anything but emptiness that can be my muse

But of course, it doesn't work that way

No matter how hard I will it

So if I'm angry enough that day

I'll convince myself to kill it

That's right, every drop of pathos within my notes

Falls victim to my momentary teenage rage

As I permanently drown out my written hopes

In some kind of attempt to feel free from the cage

But I'm still trapped, I'm still down deep

Doesn't really seem like I'll ever get out

I give you my thoughts, they are yours to keep

I'll sit back, relax, give in to doubt

I'll burn the memories, destroy the evidence

Or whatever is left of my constant prying

Confined to my mind to live out my sentence

The price I pay for trying