It's not me; it's me.

Tonight I'm fighting with a mood.
Well, fighting's not the right word.
It might be a best to say I'm lying,
perhaps in a worn-out hammock
that is, difficult to get out of gracefully.
Or maybe I'm a boa constrictor
and so is my bastard temperament
and we are locked in a morbid embrace.
I really don't know who'll break free first.
Sometimes I get smothered
in a deep and desperate resignation
like a lover outstaying their welcome
and who can fight it
and what is the point
and where is my darling
But it's not her fault
and she can't help me anyway
I will put down my head and wait til morning
when a new universe might gloriously emerge
or someone will look at me just right
or the postman might come.