Stress

This has always 'been'.

It is older than the world.

When the...nothing... exploded (probably),
To create a universe for us to exist in,
It was this that likely caused it all to happen.

So... in a way,
It is good.
An ironic good way.
Right?

We should thank it, maybe.

Right?

But...

It is just so God Damn hard to love that
Thing
That stabs its little visceral daggers into your every cell,
Making every living minute unbearable.

Just thinking about it in order to write a poem to get rid of it causes a resurgence... of it!

Argh..

Go away.

Leave me and go and find someone other fool to bother.

You are the ex who just wont get the message.
The one who wants to try to patch things up,
 Because you saw it in some horrific rom-com and therefore it must work.
So you spew out your cliches,
Hoping that one will form some type of friction and stick.

I just don't see a future for us.

You're so good at what you do.
Instead of marking my books and being the Sisyphus,
You have me writing on my blog,
Creating some sort of strange, self-aware, modern-type poem,
Which is NOT going to help anyone.

You just want my attention.

Of course!

You wouldn't want to be left out, would you?

I'm off.