Words and Void

I'm trying to write about something specific for a change. ''I'm bored, and suffocating in a desert Of dull yearnings that gulp down my stale breath Full of futile words.'' No. I'm drowning again in absurdity and saying Nothing. I need something Specific. Meaningful. ''I'm trying to create meaning on the paper, Crumpling sheet after sheet, the lost words Mourning for irretrievable primary Sensation which once urged me to continue Writing, rather than crush the pencil that so many times left No trace at all save for the void forming the words - Long since gone...'' I start afresh, this time without superfluous evocations. Nothing. Makes. Sense. It doesn't have to. The present. Is. Dark. There will be a better tomorrow. Not sure. If I'll be. You know you will. I'm alone. With my words. You'll always be. Words don't make sense when thoughts wait for their permission. Can I think about something specific for a change? There are not enough words. They disappear. When you think. About yourself.