We question our existence, our anger, our everything

So many poetic words burn through her head as she frantically looses the flood of feeling that she expertly dodges during the torrent of the day, but now the gates are down and the raging force is free, leaving her staring into oblivion without an understanding of the power of her words, her fingers fly across the keyboard but can't touch even a drop of the depth of the feeling that was dwelling in the hollow of her chest just moments ago when she let the sound keen, the faraway unimaginable depths momentarily connected to a sticky spot in her lungs where breath wasn't yet born but was destined to  carry the weight of connection, rejection, heartache, love and wonder, and yet even that is but a drop of the arch of what IS and there is no way her fingers can even begin to trace the line left behind by the shadow of the thing that she is chasing, but she isn't chasing anything, just feeling, just trying to stop doing and just be, just being, just living, just breathing just...