When It Hits, It Hits

It's when everything at night
makes me cry and I am far
from sleeping, too awake,
depressed in my want.

Doesn't matter if it's music
or the writing of fictional
characters from a tv set,
my brain wants nothing
but to sob. It's rough,
the emotional drowning
I put myself through,
especially when the music
player insists on dark
and dreary, angst and
singer-songwriters who sing
their hearts and only them.

But I've been unable to complete
a coherent poem thought, or
other writerly duties in my
time today, and I want to punch
my muse in the face, stab her
in the stomach, all while tears
roll down my eyes, to my neck,
to the blouse of my chest,
something hard and soft and deep
and escalating into fear. This is
the only way I know how to live.

Searching through others' disasters
and sliding my heart into love,
fickle. The head of my body
is attempting to understand,
come through with the concept,
be one with the ideas of so many
other people. Need to get this out,
eat the fear right from my belly.

Sometimes these worries are too
much for me and my salty tears
never seem to end, just flow
like wine in an Italian fountain,
something out of the surrealistic
mountaintops of foreign countries,
from the minds of amazing poets
and painters and sculptors,
photographers and novelists
and all those other creative people
I long to be, my mind collapsed
into theirs, but still my own.

I will write.

I may cry.

These things are far too related
to be separate. It's how I am
and who I want to be, everything
and anything I can hope for.

Writing.

Life.

I am it.