There's no place for me in man-made things

I am tissue-paper thin
trying to stand ten feet thick.
I wish there was another word for tired
exhausted
spent,
one that expressed how my limbs are bending,
my body folding under the weight of the schedule
balanced precariously on my shoulders.
The mailman keeps wishing me good luck
while handing me back all of my unread letters.
There are phone calls answered with voices I cannot hear.
The weather man keeps telling me I’m in a low pressure moment,
but hold on, because high pressure means whiplash.
I am sleeping next to walls
too cramped to let me stretch the freedom from my breath.
These words are hurricanes in my head
barbs in my chest
and there aren’t enough miles on the soles of my feet

The land is awakening in rich blooms
covering up barren and isolated with green grass,
but this is in no way an ordinary winter,
where blanketed skeletons are accusing you of impermanence,
and I can’t think!
I’m trying to shatter this allusion of sunlight,
the air fluttering with blueberry symphonies
and honeysuckles vines meant to tempt you.
I can’t seem to find words.
The tax man left with all my eager conceptions,
joined hands with summer vaults
tried and tested beneath the gravestones of whimpering horoscopes.
Flowers don’t stand a chance,
when the one doesn’t know how to touch
or be touched,
love,
or be loved.
Nuclei and nuclear are synonymous,
tea with those skeletons have become an everyday occurrence.

I’ve tried kneeling,
but faces are shifting and
shadows are math equations spilling from mouths.
My professor once said that haven is a map of parenthesis
I never noticed the correlation
until judge forgot that judgment was his love
and I was but another weed between concrete wedges.