I feel a poem coming on...

It's there.
Somewhere.
I can only hope.
That word.
One line.
Repitition to no effect.
Inspired and hurt
are those who write of hurt and inspiration.
Hurt, am I, and thus, inspired.
The two go hand in hand.
To Express myself.
I'd like to, yes. I really would.
However,
The words, they well.
Like mocking crocodile tears behind a child's eyes.
Tumbling, straightening,
lightening, fading.
Always evasive,
ever eluding
are these fugitive words of mine.
I try to write;
but try I might,
the words refuse to come.