Searching for the Right?

There isn’t even the right pen,

Forget the right moment,

Forget the app preventing you from restarting,

Forget the digital noise,

Forget the notebook with lines,

Tell myself a multitude of lies,

This isn’t the time,

My muse has died,

I can’t make it rhyme!

Don’t admit any truth to myself,

Lock it up inside,

The prison is my mind,

But, universe, the words betray me,

My grammar is wild, will a line break

Suffice?

With time I could make it all rhyme as long as none of it is mine,

Instead, I’ll sit and write of feeling nothing,

The spaces of emptiness that defy my logic and words alike,

Curse my consciousness and drown it; only after five.

I’ll ignore the blank page,

Consume like a shark swimming to survive,

I’ll get lost in doing washing and doing dishes,

Build a world inside my head while sat in traffic,

All the while ever more lost,

Is there a sat-nav for poets who find the world too much?

Is there a limit to how many times I write “overwhelmed” in my diary?

Is there a way to heal without spilling out my heart?

Is there a pen or a page or a place where fear sits quiet and still?

Is there?

Is there a word left for me to say that permits my hope to stay?

Am I stuck in the cliché that better days like tomorrow are always a day away?

I’ll add a line break

Randomly.

Call my rambling thoughts a poem,

And, for my mother, it will be sure to rhyme,

Hooray!