Bit of a rant, but I'd like to do something with it. Comments as welcome as ever, if not more so.

Don't be woolly just 'cause it looks a bit raw. Do your worst... I dare you

[title is part of this poem, I haven't found a proper one yet]

It's all getting on top of us.

Sitting here on my living-room floor
I can feel it pressing down on my shoulders,
forcing me to hunch over the paper that
I'm hoping will free me, for now.

Free me from what I can see, unwillingly
envisaged on the white all in front
like some grotesque peep-show, images of you;
angry, hurt, lashing out, losing it,
but not me.

Shaking wrist and broken pen
do nothing to discourage this scribbled wave,
and riding it is all I've left to do
as I crouch here, holding my knees

and wishing this paradox would make itself clear,
instead of flowing perpetually around my mind,
like so much dirty bath-water. 'Cause that's all this is,
in the end; other people's darker parts dissolved

and sprinkled over those who can't seem to get as clean
for want of wanting to. And now your voice,
behind my pen is screaming at me to undo
eveything, and start again.

Where and what with are anybody's guess, but dear God,
I hope they're reading this.