Irate Mess

I feel like I want to write,
but my brain is an exhausted mess of thoughts.
I had a few inspirational ideas,
but the ones that I grasped are the ones I forgot.

I'm now just fitting empty rhymes onto this page,
spitting metaphors for my inner rage.
The frustration at being unable to create,
it's like a crescendo of lust that I can't seem to sate.

It's left me insensate and irate,
I'm just typing every word that seems to enact this hate.
And I would love it if I could let this out while I conversate,
But lately, there doesn't seem to be anyone to whom I can relate.

So I end up writing these empty rhymes on a page...