Constipated

A poem about writer's block.

I am constipated.
My vowel movements no longer come in consistent plops
Instead they squirt out in a fluid motion,
Causing my words to sound like a distorted mush of a supposed language

And it’s relieving to release them,
But not satisfying as they leave a clenching tightness behind
Because I knew what I wanted to say but it just didn’t come into fruition

And it’s tough being constipated,
Because there is so much I want to say,
But every time I say it, it just doesn’t come out right,

And it leaves a foul taste in my mouth
Because the stench of my error reeks
And I have no choice but to cover it up with a different, more flowery statement

Because how can I leave off on that note?
What decency would I have to leave it to the next person in line
To decipher what it was exactly I ate for dinner?

So instead I’ll leave them with a different thought.
One that’s simple and straightforward,
So nobody has to deal with the messy clean up.