Not Yet

I'm trying to drown it out.
I'm trying to stop feeling the rocks
on the edges of my eyelashes,
dragging down.
Down into the ravine.

Lately that ravine is
someone named sleep.
A jester shaking a
tambourine in my nostrils.

I close my eyes and
a journey to the center
is an acid trip of
suicide attempts and
orgasms.

Breathe the live giving
liquid into my throat.
Wake up my lungs and
allow them to lend
a hand.

We need all the help
we can get to feel.
We need all the hands we
can salvage.

To resurrect my balance,
the balls of my feet,
under which the world
turns the wrong direction.

The noise it makes,
hidden behind the wind is,
"It's not forever,
But not yet."

That caustic and hopeful
"Not yet."