questionable raving prose 

scrounging my mind capitulating cairo and my disintegrating fašade of calm
when the realisation occurs that wonder lies in the inability of my mind
to meander any longer through fields of phantasm he is a part of this a
big chunk of my self-disappointment and every day that i creep to the
creative gate in my mind it's asleep and rusted and vined still strong
with wrought iron there's no way to enter and he unwittingly holds the
key, tumblers pins, the knowledge of how to even pick my way in has
escaped me in a tyrannical fit of double-check the data being processed
flat detangled code instead of mindlessly woven gorgeous word tapestry he
won't even let me in doesn't know what he holds over my head and all the
melodrama of lying in bed while soaking my pillow in saltwater wasn't so
dumb as i thought it was just a release valve on the complicated issue of
one girl losing her art so she doesn't have to lose her boy and you wonder
not which one is better lost but how to gain them both to hold in some
kind of duality there, wouldn't that complete life exquisitely?