Dryland

My heartbeat pounds painfully against my chest when I am tired

My stomach swims when it is full and my eyes are always wet 

Either too high or not high enough from all this smoke

I'm so sick of imagining contentment and being uninspired

If I can be understood, where is the answer to my misery?

Is it that I am bad company?

What is the solution to this problem, if everybody has it?

How are bodies not falling from the sky?

Is this faith- waiting for dawn to break the night?

What am I missing when I am in the dark if the point is to be still?

Why can I not rest my head, comatose, for all of this age?

The redundancy is eating me alive,

And there are vultures that circle, peacefully intertwined with day

I cannot blame them for their hunger

I would be the same

If I could fly.