Wrestling with knots, not knowing how,
the fatalist sees it as a victory for
the anaconda, that constricts me now,
the pessimist sees it as a loss so why fight,
the boa constrictor as it closes the hold,
shallow breathing increased panic as I stare
into the face of the optimist, who smiles at me.
and says "well there is always heaven",
I know he means well
but he can go to sweltering places far below,
and I ask myself how do I do this to myself?,
why do I stall and hold my breath,
when thinking things through and no answer
not one answer volunteers, show of hands?
                              no tears fall, those wells are all run dry,
                              not that tears or laughter or the yawning void of my,...
                              my lips are turning blue, not my favorite colour,
                               but it does match my eyes...