Trying to write.

But I just can't do it.

So I doodled.

Doodled to difer from the sensations untapped by ink or graphite on paper and rising uncomfortably.
Not conveyed, not shared, not understood, not encouraged, discouraged or reassured into a hush.

Therefore, simply not...

I have stuff in there,
Stuff my ego desperately wants to share.

Share maybe, discard certainly, but not without recognition ahead of resolution.

That's the stuff of ego. Not the literal Freudian ego perhaps, but the popular application. Although freud did appear to value his own notions above all others, from a questionably small sampling. So maybe more Freud than I am willing to admit.

I wish I had a linguistic ladle,
I could scoop it our, from the twisted pit

Between my heart and my stomach.

A burden upon my diaphragm which distresses breathing in spite of doing
Nothing that can be confused as strenuous or slightly meaningful.