I’m Fine.

There are seconds,
sometimes long
hours, where my head
feels heavy.
Heavy with a weighted
accumulation of
thoughts. Some unimportant,
and some
important enough to be worth
avoiding.
But to turn my back on one,
means to stare at another,
and the pressure is not unlike that
of a boiling kettle.
Steam burns brand those that stand
for too long in the wrong place.
Any place, really.
I am tired.
Also, I am unable to
gather all the sharp fragments
and place them in neat little
boxes, not
with out cutting my self.
Perhaps if I bleed
on what is to be started at
it will become less
daunting? Simply because
I will already have suffered
the indignity of
failure.