Stultiloquy Poem by Indigo Hawkins

What format shall I use to spill my guts?
Whenever my mouth opens, a door shuts.

Stuck in the throes of a rage in repose,
no work gets done. Dictating dysfunction:
a rigid, irascible compunction.
It falls short (as falling usually does)
of sastisfactory explication.

Once, traipsing atop something beautiful,
I thought the source of universal force
was searching, but so far this dutiful
crusade of parsing cultural clutter
has only evoked a stilted stutter.

Since none of these lines have opened a door,
I am even more closed off than before.