Washing Pains Away (A Poem)

This is another first draft of a poem, I haven't messed with it yet, I thought I'd post it in its raw form and see what people thought (plus I've been kind of busy and lazy lately to actually give it the thoughtful revision it really needs). The first two parts, with "the water falls" and "standing underneath...," are the only parts I'm a little shaky on, but the form of the whole thing needs a look over. Right now it's in a convenient form, so if it works then let me know, but if not then I'll give it some more thought.

I've wanted to write a shower poem for the longest time, since high school. The idea I wanted to address just kept changing. In high school I wanted to write some sort of story that gave across the idea that, no matter what our differences are, we all shower (even sounds like a high school idea). Then in freshman year I wanted to focus on the solitude of the shower, and I might try that too sometime. This year, a few weeks ago, I was thinking about how soothing showers are, how sometimes it really feels like they're washing everything away. The image came in my head as washing of all the dirt, but then I wondered if that dirt was necessary somehow, if maybe that's what actually made us all different, how we accumulate it. From there I wrote this, mostly in a blind spur, hence why the parentheses in that second part might seem weird. Let me know how it is, I'm really glad people are starting to leave me critiques!

In side/personal news, I applied to the Advanced Poetry Workshop here at NYU, won't know if I'm in until November 13th - the anticipation! I didn't take the Intermediate Poetry Workshop, so I really applied to it blind, but here's hoping for the best.

So leave comments and criticisms please, they're all appreciated, the good along with the bad.
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Washing Pains Away
by Matthew Stalbaum

The water falls
the water falls…
…
…
and burns….

Standing underneath the soft rains
I’d wash it all off, the clothes (unweave the
Stitching from my skin and fingers, tear the
Patches from my knees), the dirt (it has
Come to shape my chin and my elbows and
My laugh), the dust (shed it like snake skin or
time), Skin (I grow cold, I grow cold),
Muscles (I did not fight, I did not stand, I
Only sat upon my hands), and the clean
White bones of me all (don’t all skeletons
Look alike, or do closer eyes find cracks) and

I will swirl down the drains and expect a
Ghost to stand where I was, but there will
Only be a breath, then a cough, then
Nothing but nothingness and nothingdom,
Not even loss or lament, and

I will wait for the bones to grow back and
The muscles and skin to grow back and
The dust to gather and the dirt to clod and
The clothes to crawl on like fur and
I will see how dirty I am to be something
And desire for cleanliness and purity and
Nothingness and nothingdom.