Personality Crisis

Tiny little insects,
crowded in my brain,
pray for rain,
slow insane,
quicken the decay.

To be or not to be,
to have or not to hold,
to be told,
and withhold,
the betrothed,
is sold,
to a wickedly wuthering day.

I'm sick,
with this slick,
trickery.

Lovelorn,
and loss,
lessens Leviticus lies,
while shy,
spry,
and nimble lights try.

Guide me away from this entombed canal,
plagued with sick and diseased water.

I yearn to swim upstream,
through the slime and muck that weighs us down.

Whispering voices steady the boat.

Only I have the power to tip it completely.

Do I stand and deliver,
or stay and grieve?

Decisions, decisions.