THIS IS A POEM 1.15.17

1.15.17

I wonder:

why the better parts of me

must fade in that sickness

which has no cure

but for the things they tell you

to abstain from.

Meanwhile,

the worst of me prospers

like a leech with

10 stomachs

1000 sharpened teeth

it feeds on sickened blood

and grows and

grows and grows and grows

and grows and grows and grows and

grows and grows and grows and grows and grows

and

Written at 11:51 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while fighting the pull of sleep and wondering at a dull pain that persists in the lower part of my stomach. I suspect it’s a slight bout of indigestion. Although WebMD is telling me I’m depressed.  

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