nobody knows the trouble i've been

internal spaces, mouths and such,
some unmentionable others,
some preset conditions of mind,
inclining vision and reception one way or another
like an iron bird on a slanting rooftop,
all the blanks filled with sky.
orifices filed away behind cotton
and intervening manners and mannerisms
can fill up with sour or bitter or crushed
or marvelous aromas,
or undelivered messages,
voices trapped behind unopened telephones
such life beneath the skin that keeps in soul
and holds the world out
that shades the self in myself,
the me that i refer to,
the keen blades of 'needs' and 'loves.'
remembered dreams
realms and reams of reason
and occasional despair-
why are we always fighting to live without having to fight to live?-
are sewn up in me
like suit coat pockets
like the event horizon of a forgotten memory
like nobody knows but jesus