PMT blues

I am tired. So. Please.
Don't brief me on your emotions
which slide, slither, dither, shake, or
make the earth quake.
I'm a wall, a brick - mortar trench
filled with shell casings of war.
Scale me, then cry me a river, baby.

Like a bomb that's wired to the teeth, 
press the red button, do it. 
Go on - activate 
that electric cold rage will 
traverse a thin metallic course,
streaking, like a naked man on the oval
while all look, cheer and jeer.
See here? No - there! 
Really, wow, that tiny...oh...Well.

Please.
Don't talk about fragility and ego,
it all bends and breaks by contrary word, 
It's a no-go. I won't go,
unmapped, without compass 
or magnifying glass.
I won't go near things that ensue
a closed lip sound of discontent, 
followed by the radio static of 
'intentional silences'...
healing 'breaks of solitude'...
champagne and pamper packages.

That fence must be pretty spiky,
to be sitting so jumpy!
(Like a bean on crystalmeth.)
Icy paranoid thought
like machine-gun fire,
scattered meandering, 
nothingmorethanbuttheworldof
hey, don't scare, don't fear, 
just draw near, 
watch me here, 
watching you be weird,
over the smallest thing
which is scarcely the reality
that you think it be.

Anyhoo...You compensate.
Draw yourself up, stand tall, erect.
Don't think. Take a pill, 
send me a bill.
We all fake it sometimes.
Then we sit on our laurels
feeling cheated, 
like we didn't play honesty 
for long enough.
But...don't brief me about it, 
I.am.tired.