too kind

Have you ever gotten a thing off your chest that actually
lightened the load on your back? Some seem to say it helps, but
I don't see that, not in my life. The long,
bad stories that I occasionally tell
aren't building up within me.
Pressure to kill
if no life-giving vent
appears to sunder the veil of tears,
tears with a gaping rent
to let in the light of consolation, sympathy

I don't mind consolation, sympathy.
I'm fine with pity, actually
I do not spurn charity, or consider it an insult
have mercy, on me
please. I beg you, even:
mercy.
These stories
long, boring, horrible, that you want to hear
do not particularly lighten the light of today's day
for me. Or ease my heart, or help my mind
from the putting of them
in order, for your ears.

There is no order
they can be put in. These kinds of stories
(by me, at least) can not be made to make sense, and
they smell bad, when released
into the air, their cloud blots
light out as well
it doesn't feel good coming out
there is no lightening,
no lightning,
just the deafening dumb numbness
of counting for thunder that never comes
- when is my relief going to hit? One-one
thousand, two-one thousand, never
one thousand. Never
release, never relief,
not to me at least.
I guess sometimes,

it helps to hear

to be trusted in, tears
can be very therapeutic to a certain kind of shoulder
but dear,
mine are shed freely
all day anyway, and never held in.
They do not collect, there's no rim
to the gutter that guards my roof,
and the water that rains down
runs down and off. I have
neither water nor works to spare for at the moment,
I will spare you because I must.
but I will be certain to take your trust,
dampen your broad and tender shoulder
at the earliest possible time that I can prove your love
and usefulness, in the way you'd suggest

will help me.