A poem with no real form or rhyme but plenty of reason

(original entry June 15, 2010)

whatever it is make it fucking STOP

make it go away...

I do not like it.

It is not who I am.

It is just an illusion.

It will be gone as soon as I turn around ...

but yet...

it's not working.

it is not going away.

a seed planted in fertile ground sprouted...

is it a fucking weed?

Pull it out!

wait ...
watch...look! ....
awe shit ...
it's budded..

I MUST see it blossom first.

Once I see the blossom

then and only then can I decide

whether or not

to poison it.

make sure I kill the root.

don't want it coming back

ever...

like a weed.

^..^