In slit-throat symphony
it pumps
encapsulated by its own desire
as it quivers and jumps.

A sucker for love,
and the vector for infectious fury,
four bloodied arbitral chambers;
Victim, Executioner, Judge and Jury.

For I can feel
the soured anger it injects into
the cerebral cortex of my brain
infesting my life
with sickness and clotted disdain,

this foolish heart
I'd rip right out of my chest!
Forget all the pain
because I don't think I'd feel the rest,

It's just not fair -
not fair, that with every passing day,
I feel less and less
like my true, honest, self -

O' sweet Doctor

lock the door

I think I'm very ill of health...