This is a disease.
People say it isn't deadly.

But
It is.

It grips hold of its host.
Making them feel miserable.

It rips open the old wounds;
buried deep inside;
to bleed and soak through the fabric of time
to stain the newly washed cloth
I just washed of all its dirt
Once Again.

It beat down the wall
That I put up
To keep it out.

For Good.

It clawed and growled and howled.
At the glowing moonlight of what was my
New Self.
Begging to have a slice of that new pie.

It got what it wanted.

It took hold of me;
Again.
It made me bleed;
Again.
It made the seas of mid-night aches
and
mid-day death wishes arise
Again.

When Will it Go Away.