Frustration consumes you from the inside out

It starts out as an itch

Slowly burning til you can't stand it anymore

The tear induced wear of hysteria

To which you hate yourself for

The feeling of loving nothing and having nothing to love

Slowly those two walls compress us in

That is frustration

It's the misconstruted ideas brought forth in hopes both sides would be willing to reciprocate

It's the idea that two way conversations become a traffic jam

Where you're already three hours late

It is the flickering bulb that you want to shatter just so it could stop blinking 

It's the words thrown across the page, not escaping the pen fast enough from the turmoil you never expected

It is the person you care about walking away, helpless and cotton dried mouth 

Frustration is a lost artform

Molded into our being

Programmed to come out when everything should be pent up