A snowball inside, with no snow,
Just layers of guilt and nausea below.
Layers, wrapped, one on top of the rest.
Layers of nausea and guilt, stressed, pressed, wrest.
And the ball is rolling around inside,
Picking up more nausea and guilt on its ride.
Getting bigger, getting fat.
Blocking my airways, leaving me flat,
On my back with nothing but dry, hollowed cry.
Salt burning my flared eyes.
I'm sitting inside,
The snowlessball, heavy, wide.
I can't see past it, I can't see behind.
I'm looking straight, directly at it and try, I try, I try to cry.
To drown it, diffuse it, dissipate.
It doesn't. It sits there, full of hate.
Hate and nausea and guilt,
Layered, patched like a quilt,
Waiting for ME to quit.
Me and the ball, in the middle of things,
Between us a chess board with no kings.
Only queens, inside my skin,
And all queens can fall, and all queens can win.
I have the black ones and he has my sins.
Spread on the board my sins and my queens,
Between me and my guilt on a mid summer's nightmare.