I need a surgeon.
Someone with precision.
Who can cut open my chest
And drain these excess emotions from around my heart.
These sentiments are like cement:
Oh so solid,
And heavy,
And restricting.
Like a cancer of the mood;
Is there such thing as feeling chemotherapy?
The irony of all of this
Is the potential benefit
Of a donation of this sensitivity.
Some care too little.
I care too much.
So stick me up doctor, and fix me quick.
Push the needle in and take it away.
I’m Type A.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment