Help

My head is in a bad place—
please excuse the racket. 

There are daisies growing from eyelashes:
a hitch,
a noose,
around my neck,
and the whole room is spinning
with insecurity and mushroom dreams.

Where do I go from here?
The stars aren’t pointing
anywhere specific,
except to the joint on the shelf,
and I think I’ve lost
clear purpose, clear need
to keep marching on.

I used to aspire to save a life
but there’s so little meaning in that;
my hands shake
in close contact—
I can’t touch without forming blisters.