sketchbook colors, like a dream recalled

there's me alone on a sick mountain top, oozing some red substance, all brown and puffy, glowing with shame and self-contempt, ringed by thorns, trapped on the bleeding, erupting, plump and round-- sharp lightning penetrating the smoggy sky to pierce my mountain of disgust and isolation, yet prominently shining and protruding for all to see-- all with their pink skies and puffy clouds- the normal below, unique in form and function, in style and stigma-- full of color and motion, while I quiver, illuminated far above in degradation-- they play, they jump, they frolic, they twist and dive. they live. I cower. I shake. inside I die. I am painfully apart and painfully aware-- they can see me and naturally they stare and they frolic and live for normal things- I'm jealous and alone- shivering, seething with hot shame-- meanwhile the storm rages and my foundations shake-- I wish I could melt into painful drowning in the muck rather than be known as such on my obtuse bad mountain.