Liquid Gold

It's on the days I feel the most
That my tongue forgets how to speak.
When everything is wrong-- all I can say
If asked is "I don't know".
Of course I know-- but i can't express.

It's on these days that my muse--
Not beautiful as one would assume--
Holds a gun to my temple and forces out
Of my pained existence, a few short lines.

It's on these days, that the blood pumped
Throughout my body is sluggish-- like molten
Lead, pulsing through my arteries.

It's on the days when a thousand screams
Are trapped inside my chest--
I stand silent.

It's on these days I forget how to cry--
Though I feel I'll be rent apart if the aqueduct remains closed.

It's on these days that the few hard-earned
Rays of sunshine slip through my fingers;
Like liquid gold it drips away--

All is darkness again...