Part of me wants to charge forward with all pistons firing
and leave a long dust trail behind me.
Part of me wants to lie in bed and weep.
You get miffed when you ask what's wrong,
and I say "everything and nothing".
I'm a fool to think you could understand
how small frustrations accrue into tragedy,
but I suppose I should thank you
because I get sick of your prodding
and put on my coat and go out
and do what I need to do