DSM V

“Not doing” is not enough. 

It doesn’t reflect the turmoil raging within 

Doesn’t mirror the cracked ribs 

shredded lungs like vintage lace.

It doesn’t show the burning folds of my brain 

the raking of my liver. 

IT IS NOT 

the raw wet venom lurching 

cresting at the top of my throat. 
How. Much. Longer. 

Do I beat the walls back as they continue to close in? 

Why does everything turn to poison once the clock strikes the hour? 

How can I be so far away...

Every morning is potential and new 

Each night remains the same, desolate. 

I’m a steam roller stuck in reverse.