I'm not sure if this is a poem..

I've been yearning to write this poem
The pen is hungry
The pen is angry
Thirsty for shackled thoughts

Yearning to write about you
But I'm not allowed to

I'm not sure if this is a poem
I yearn to tell you the time I've spent thinking about you
But the right hand of my bravery is broken
The long hand of crying screams tick between the second of the last hug and the second that marked your first step  when you left

I'm not sure if this is a poem
Metaphors swim in the acidic ocean of a strangled need to release
Happy similes dressed in frowns , exhaling the silence of depression

Poems are suppose to give release they say
But I'm not sure if this is a poem
I find myself stumbling into a darker retreat as I paint you with each faint stroke across these life lines on my page

The mind holds pages of memories
As each fade into daydreams daily

I've been yearning to write this poem
To find release
To do ....something at least

Wanting to write the pain
Or like a kid , paint it with my eyes closed
But in the presence of true thoughts ,ink becomes invisible ...

Wanting to write how much I've missed
The pen has inhaled all that I am forbidden to say
And even in time past and time to come
This poem will remain premature

Its beginning was not the beginning
And there will be no end

True thoughts shall remain caged
True thoughts yearn to become the lungs of this page
But now that true thoughts are ready to speak
Again my ink becomes invisible