The Skull, a Cracked Egg

The skull, a cracked egg,
spills thoughts like yolk,
sticky, yellow, staining
everything it touches.
Each tick of the clock, a hammer blow,
shattering the thin glass of composure.
My skin, a tight drum,
vibrating with unseen tremors,
the air itself, a barbed wire fence against my lungs.
Sleep, a distant country,
postcards from a place I can’t reach,
while the shadows lengthen,
claws scraping at the door.
The weight of unsaid words,
a concrete block in my throat,
a silent scream trapped,
echoing inside the hollow of my chest.
The world, a blurry,
rushing train, I'm standing on the tracks,
and the only escape, a sudden, blessed stillness.