puddles of rain

This is not a melancholic indulgence,
Or a silent gripping depression,
But more an admission with reluctance,
That my strength should be recessing,
My confusion progressing,
My heart confessing,

That I know not what I want,
Or what I need, or how to attain,
But more my heart gaunt,
But that I should lack the capacity to refrain,
The ability to sustain
And rescue my heart from the puddles of rain.