machete

I'm tearing through the underbrush of my mind, scratching the floor of my existence to try and find what it is that is the element of it all. What does it come down to? Disappointingly, I cannot hunt or corner it. I cleave to this urge to machete my way through it all: the pain, the sentiments, the memories, the faces and if I must, through the days. Is there a still pool somewhere? I thirst, with no cup and dirty hands.