Brewing and Brewing and Brewing

I must not descend into this.
Must not, must not, must know.
Proper spacing, proper pacing,
And all will flow as all should flow.
Spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces and spaces.
Filling! I'm running out of room! There isn't any room! And I'm going to explode, implode, destroy, deploy, extremely decieved and bereaved as I retrieve.
That fucking rhymed, again and and again and again. Everything fucking rhymes. I find myself deleting words because they do not swing.
What a crime.
What a fucking crime.
Words that spewed forth are deleted before they have time to take root,
Because they don't mean anything unless I make them fucking swing, fucking sing? What a fucking thing.
Pressure. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.
I'm like a patient, gibbering and writing on the walls in fury. Or one of those 'different' girls, who scream the thoughts that come into their heads in order to glean notice.
Strained beets, strained beets, and all that rot.
My god, this fucking pressure. Stones in a spiral. My gaze is drawn, but my mind is tearing away.
I held on to you, to this, to us - but what a fucking joke THAT is, right? Who the fuck is us? Did we fuse? Am I you? Are you me? What a fucked up sentiment. I was lost until I found you. Lost with me. Who the fuck needs you? I have me.
And there are people who are annoyed at cats in trees, and the wrong fucking shade of magenta.
What a fucking mess.
Anywhere's better than here, but I'm here, so there's nothing better.
I'm here.
You're not here. Why the fuck are you here? You shouldn't be, you're not.
Where's the valve on my head to turn this shit off? Release it, let it flow, let it show, let it GO.
It needs to go.
It seeps and it weeps and NO MORE, I SAY. NO MORE. I WILL NOT MAKE THEM DANCE FOR YOU. I WILL NOT GIVE IN TO THIS FUCKING MESS. I AM NOT THE FOOL.
I will not rhyme anything with that.
Fuck.
There's that fucking valve.