Being-in-the-word

Standing on the rooftop
reaching for that
elusive silver lining.

If I grab and peel, I expect
a silver skyslide, imparting
a new way with words
and finally some
heart&brain connection.

All that happens is that
my hands grow oddly long
and older. They make
eccentric air-figures
that only I can see.
They make noises
like paper crumbling,
then burning. But where
is the smell?

I stand there,
contemplating for hours
of annoying seconds, each one
pecking my skull, reminding me
of things I wasted them
not doing.

I need to separate
what makes me an individual
from what makes me
a repeated meltdown.

I inhale - and suddenly choke on
regurgitated words.
For one moment, the answer is clear,
I fumble for my pen, and feverishly
I decorate my left hand
with the sum of my existence.
The ink rapid snakes up my arm
and spots my bright-wide eyes;
the mindfire fizzles.
I am at peace,
finally.

***

The midnight cold wakes me up.
I can just make out the moonlit words:

"Fuck all this
I'll just go with BLAH!"