unto me, unto you

There's something in me like a scream
but I'm not wild enough for that
which is, unfortunately, the problem.

The trouble is that I'm
plugged too full of melancholy
straining to shut my eyes on the road
crippled by injubilation
shuddering sick and unspilled
hurtling through the past
petrifying the present
crossing myself against the future
- and always, ever, rooted to the spot.

I am here in the now, in the now, clutching on
fearing the howling dawn as it burgeons
for I cannot act - out of turns and actions

They say it's an epidemic for everyone
we're all like this, and we're just afraid to say it
- but how could anyone be this way, and not know it?

Ducking from the eyes of observers
and I tell myself, lie still, lie still
make my twisting viscera flatten out, and kill
crackling my knuckles to the finest inch of my life.

Of all our lives, this I know is the glassiest one
as my vision swims away under my eyelids, to convalesce;
I can't see anymore, I can't take any more, I can't know anything anymore.

Poised and prised to shatter, magnificently
if only I could rise that high in the sky
--- pop cap off mind ---
a container denatured into dermatitis.