A Thin, Straight, Brittle Line

I sent out the post I planned to use this week for an application for a column at Grinnell's student newspaper, so I won't be able to post it until I hear back. In the meantime, here's my only non-Bionicle poem to date! My lack of practice shows, doesn't it?

I can't stand poems that play around with shape and space.
If a poem is any good, you should be able to
Ignore the words and just focus on the
Ideas,
Images,
Inlightenment
It cetera.
Include interesting sounds, if you have to. Rhymes can be cool sometimes.
It's just too much for a poem to be
In your brain
In your throat
In the page, all at once.
It exceeds my mind's maximum capacity.
It shouldn't have a physical form, those wear out too fast.
Instead, it should be like a dream: beautiful, personal, fleeting,
Impossible to write a paper on.
I'm exhausted from all this reading and writing and running.
Illness from my head drains down my backbone to my legs.
In the mirror I look like a thin, straight, brittle line.
If things keep up,
I'll spend the rest of my life trying to achieve horizontality.
Unless I snap first.