When anything is too much

I feel a weariness that no
amount of sleep will ever heal.
I've aching bones that
rattle and grrrriinnnd
against the hands of time
and wretched weeping long-dead
dreams (or
wishes), dissolved in eyes of
false elation. Anticipation...
smarts the open-wounded heart
of faliure to succeed.
At life.
At love. At anything
more real than
second-hand emotion, purchased in
a moment
of desperate need and constant longing for
a nanosecond heartbeat
of nothing but sure and certain calm.
And none of...
This.