Her Vessels

Do my thoughts spill to fill,
Or does the filling seek to spill?
The panic stricken strain enters the bloodstream.
That merciless thud,
Oh, the echoing thud,
Of all the anguish manifested.
I tear down the plaster,
Rip my fist from the walls,
But only in the deepest of depths,
Of all sanity,
Do I let my release soar freely.

Damn that pencil, that pen, that tracing of lines.
It drowns out the sound, oh, it drowns out the sound.
I can't keep myself from listening,
I can't help myself to safety,
But the silky, white paper sits alone - impatiently.
Pop the top and scourge the sop for the liquid.
That unseen stream of livelihood.
As the pain presses down in shaking vernacular,
I scream the cries of each vessel.

Do my thoughts spill to fill,
Or does the filling seek to spill?
Answers left unquestioned by the THUD!
Oh, how the thud fills all space,
Between the ends of my hair,
And my sullen, sour face.
It is that THUD,
That smack upon flesh,
That wings me to the high.
And as I sit to die,
I realize,
That the sun,
Will rise,
Again.