Blanket of Privilege

Sometimes, Simply, I can not find the words. Perhaps, At times, They come in and out, As the ebb and flow of a lost tide. It is wrong to blame the words, For the actions I painstakingly commit. Somehow, I become lost in the light, Of this loss. Peculiar how I am found in the cold, And dank, Dark, Where my expression grows. Thoughts are penicilin, Growing in the absence of illumination. Wet, Dark, Death, Ironically posessing a living elixir. I, With my hands bound, By absence of will, Muster words with no consequence, And keep truths blanketed in fear. A chill that shivers the soul, When fear subsides, Found comfort in it's threads. The quilt of anger requires many enslaved hands to sew. Now blanketed in privilege. My absence of words give action to blame. While I sleep silently caged within it's threads.