Poetry

Poisoned

These aren’t my thoughts anymore.
These are delusions in the flesh;
Ravings of a lunatic unhinged by bitter and resentful despair.

The medicine goes down easy,
Administered daily by idle hands.
But they’re only obeying a contrived mind, which deludes itself in the art of Pretend:

“Yes, you are my very best friend.”

At our highest, this meant till the end.

Oh, well.

The truth is, I take it willingly, too,
This poison — Bitter pill —
And it’s this sordid cannibalistic ritual which daily keeps me ill.

I push myself into this puddle of shit,
Squelch and dance in it and pretend that it’s okay.
But the leeches are sucking me dry,
Leaving nothing but bile inside my heart.
But I’ll die a thousand deaths before denying I willingly played the part.

A part which chokes and suffocates me worse than your noose.

For I’m the one who picks,
Therefore I’M the one I lose.

Daily.

But that’s never, ever what I REALLY WANT to choose.

What I’d really like to do,
Is to go to that place where I first found you:
That Universe where all things became true;
Where poetry fell from your bachelor’s roof,
And where the Willow Tree, on lonely nights, danced with the Moon.

But that’s all moot.

Your seasonal circus has poisoned my mood.

This,
My Rock,
Heavy Anchor,
Hollow Armour,
Will never allow me to move.

For in you, I’m forever moored.

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