whitewater rafting in your heart

I am dying to hurl every last word in my system out into the world to prove that I am smarter than I actually am,
and I want to blow you away with my intellect, diction, and syntax in this poem, but I know it's not going to work.

You're smarter than that,
and not so easily swept away-
which sends me down a torrential river
with orange and tan and streaky gold canyons
and white clouds of water rushing past my sides
and attacking my heart and soul,
the way that a razorblade cuts perfectly
into your skin-
and the water's rushing in the boat,
because I didn't take care to check
if the bottom had holes in it;
I'm sinking. Lord, someone save me.
The sun's right up above me, white hot and
glaring down and pushing me forward
despite the cries echoing.
The canyons are tall, and steep, and they glisten
with the sunshine's ferocity
and the water's edge.
Howard Roark would have stood at the edge
without a second thought,
and sometimes I wish I had the courage to
throw my head back and laugh at the world too,
but we aren't in reality; I am still,
the boat is still! I'm bloody fucking sinking
into the tide of salt and water and my angst, and fears
and I'm not sure if I'm more scared to
swim out into the canyon wall or hit the bottom
of the river, down, down, down into the jagged edges
of the rocks and holes here in our indeterminate future,
because it's almost
over.