there is a voice inside my head
that tells of dreams and tells of dread.

thoughts of peace and thoughts of war
in which I’m rattled to my core.

the pain’s not real, I tell myself,
but it feels as though I’m in poor health.

a broken heart is not to blame,
instead my own eternal shame.

my soul’s been turned into a puddle;
the hands that hold it turned to funnels.

I feel and watch the water pour,
accumulating on the floor.

and there I sit, and there I shake,
while all my walls begin to quake.

within I feel I am not whole.
my mind must pay the final toll.