The Malady Of Truth

Poets and writers don't cry
They keep bleeding on paper
But words in my throat sigh
Planning to choke me later

I want to utter billion thoughts
Crammed waiting for my speak
I bleed then erase heavy notes
Blood flood mortifies the weak

I wrestle to grasp my hand
Papers fill the room to brim
And I fill the room with sand
For those who can't swim.