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.