Gifts of fife

Rife with strife.
Wife the knife.
Dagger before me.
Aye, that’s she.

Run and run and run and run and run.
Stuck, friendless with the illness.
Sickness. Out of sorts.
Close to tears, lonely without motivation.
Strange, jarred. Directionless.

I have a growth.
I have a blister.
A swelling of illness.
“The sickness”
The killer inside me –
acting. Upon my mind heart and soul.

I was asleep.
I need present.
I need this gift.
I stand in a field like a cow.
All cud.
Chewing, doe eyes.
Soft gentle, single minded.
But for direction.
Control.
Give me delusion.
Allude, allume.
Illuminate. Exterminate.

Ughhhhhhh let me run now.
Let me go.
Mindless body and soul.
If I am but an energy transfer let me steal what there is.
I will take and take and take.

All-ways. Missing.
I am so missing.

This is my moment abroad.
Swollen feelings of sadness.
Memories of people, scars all brought up in a dredge of painful emotions.
Reminders. Rocks, baggage and burden that didn’t fit or fall through the sieve.

Why do I forget breakfast but not these wounds.
All have built me.
Made me.
Great… I am made.
happy holidays, you bastarts.

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