i am sick of myself.
my sweet and overly ripe words
i need not to even think of myself in any other way
i am already sick
the prolonging of my so called existence
the falseness which clings to me
i kick it and hide it sometimes
only to find myself
unsuccessful and worried  
that it shows off.

frivolousness.

it leaks and sprouts through every cell
incomprehensible extinction  
of my lost way.

a disgrace.

for being sick of myself only i can be
for no one else could even tackle the madness of the inside plot
of fluid wandering
of scattered taint of rotting business. unfinished.

uncertainty.

once again.