Muck
So many things that fill up my mind
So much that’s past that’s pushing from behind
Jolted awake, again, by the relentless perplexing pressure
Far too much to fathom, to contain, by any measure
Crowding my senses, busying them, with misguided nagging haste
An overflow, of constant next thoughts, destined to the waste
Insignificant plans, and worries, in an inane excess of order
Inconsequential hurries, close to the edge, my internal border
A constantly rising pool, of recurring what, and where, and when
Spilling over, from a vast reservoir, of again, and again, and again
Any important thoughts, lost in the mix, and escaping beyond the wire
Anything of significance, diluting, as it spreads into the mire
Distressed, exhausted, I just lay there, with my mess all around me
A muck, of all the nagging nothings that won’t leave me be
Questions, and circumstances, tests that I should be able to take
Yet, more and more than enough to keep me entirely awake
The same old, and the most recent, cruelly conspired into one
Into yet another restless night, after yet another day done
Not quite willing, or able, to get up and get out of it just yet
Tonight’s fresh sheets, soaked with my self-absorbed, subconscious sweat
Hearing, and feeling, everything now, with steady relentless refrain
Her breathing, my breathing, my impatience, with my incessant pain
A convergence, the ache, on and in me, until I can take it no more
Throwing back my side of sheets, I am up, and fleeing for the door
An enormous, overwhelming need to get away from it all
To distance myself, further and further, as I stagger down the hall
Into the living room, to the window, to the familiar streetlight view
I take a deep gasp of new breath, press my cheek to the glass, as often I do
And I stay that way, for a cool relieved minute, behind my tightly shut eyes
Opening them, eventually, to look out and around, to the expansive starry skies
It matters, more than ever to me then, that they are still safely up there
As my recurring, waking nightmare dissipates, into their endless thin air
Slow sane certainty, calm, easing my racing pulse with every moment that I look
Me, destined once more, for the couch, for a blanket, a pillow, and a book
Sleep, situations, and palpitations, left behind, for now, for the rest of this night
Alone, alive, at three thirty-eight a.m. Accepting, again, that this just isn’t right
Cerebral Images 