I try to work faster.
I try to work harder.
I try to think.
But everything in mind had come to a standstill.
To a standstill. To a fucking standstill.
Then I cried,
Cried as you mocked me.
Cried as I remember how you tried to hide it from me.
Cried as you show your half-assed concern for me.
I cried at my worthless attempts to try harder.
I cried at my pathetic self, to get worked up over something like this.
And it's still empty. Still fucking empty.
My mind's still empty.
I can't get rid of the mental roadblock.
I'm holding my pen and paper,
but no words are forming.
Not on the paper, not in my head.