Vague

I am frightened when I am unable to write. Not as in writer's block, but when I am disturbed so deeply that my gut is buried alive.
It's been that way for a while, hence the poems written by other people and the photographs. I have had lots to write about....new intimacies, good talks, active days, terrifying suspicions...but thw words will not come.
I am realizing that I love couching my writing in abstract, beautiful words. And a diary cannot be hemmed in by such artistic demands. I talk straight..my stammer makes it necessary to keep conversation to the point. I am even accused of being outspoken to the point of rudeness.
But in writing, I feel I must be flowing, graceful, subtle.
Disturbance, terror, shattering suspicions are alien to this mindset. It bruises me to be less than honest while writing, but...honesty is raw. Honesty is the big pimple on the cheek, the intensity that most people back away from, being moody because you feel like it, favouring silence rather than small talk...
I need this honesty. I need to write with it. I need to shed layers and move out...