over capacity

this pressure on my head
gripping, bearing down,
brain rapping against skull
like a swollen brown river
beating against bare roots
over and over, washing,
wearing them down and away.
like white-hot searing lust
or overeager anticipation,
what other blinding is there?
there is always the possibility
that full to bursting, it explodes
into the hardness of white light.
that's enough, then. no more.