Poem shy

A quiet voice with a cracked smile,
"Won't you read aloud?"
I open my mouth, nothing comes out
It might take me a while...

My palms become sweaty, tears jerked back,
Breathing becomes harder,
on comes the panic attack.

I try to gain composure and begin my narration
To read the paper engraved with nothing,
But blood and sweat and tears from frustration.

These are not tears of teenage angst,
Of comparing every single aspect, thinking you're below shit.
These are the tears from wanting to rip out your tongue
For never knowing what word that was on the tip.
This is not the blood from self-infliction,
Nor from anything of that relation.
This is the blood of my pen as ink smears
Onto my blank sheet of illustration.

This is not sweat from physical labor,
But from mental drilling and flared emotions.
Can I read aloud?

I look up and feel the lump in my throat,
Look how everyone gapes.
With a quiet voice I crack a smile
“Maybe another day.”