Some Days

Some days I’m human.
Some days I’m grey.
And some days I slip through the cracks in my skull
and fall from the clouds and down into the sea
where I drown so nice and quietly.

Some days I’m patient.
Some days I’m short.
And some days I carry a knife in my heart
to wield into the wounds of others more sane
so that they may suffer beside me in pain.

Some days I feel all.
Some days I’m numb.
Some days I replay
memories on my tongue
and breathe out the clever words
of what I could’ve said—
and some days I’m living.
and some days I’m dead.

Some days I carry the past on my neck
as a chain made of lead
holding a pendant of ice.
Some days I strip naked from my binds
and watch the bright sunrise,
calculate its price.

Some days I am forward
and rip the truth from the dark
and expose light in the lesser-vogue
where the populous daren’t roam,
where I have taken up home
in the abyss of memory, stark.
Yes, some days I’m rogue.

While some days I’m a spirit
drifting free of time and age.
And others I’m left bound
by the words on my page.