When it overwhelms you, when it goes over your head, covers you, smothers you, kills you.

I've realized that ever since the day that I'd sworn, I have never been able to let the words flow out. I don't know. It's like there is this little stopper there, clogging everything up into one big indistinguishable mess. Even in plain colours black and white, through that little pipe called a 'pen', onto its pure counterpart the 'paper'. Nothing. Whatever I've written up till now. My four paged-long compositions, phrases, whatever, can be just taken and be burnt. Nothing. Yes, nothing. Perhaps I can be called a robot, one made of steel, programmed when to scream with joy, bow my head in sadness, cringe with disgust. I'm just so used to it, so used to it that so much so I can't seem to find the end of that tangled ball. Damnit. If only, if only I could just open up and wear my heart on my sleeve again.