Feelings are an ambrosiac poison
All I want is more
And more
I drink and gulp until it dribbles down my chin
Then I lap up what’s on the floor
Like a desperate dog
Because my belly is a jug
Empty
But that means full of air
The air is polluted
I want it replaced
With hurt
With care
With sadness
With euphoria
With anything
Yet the feelings I consume are artificial at best
Weighing me down like edible lead
As I know their impermanence
And the inevitable repetition of the cycle
Tomorrow my stomach is yet again empty
And I shall scramble to fill it
Defining insanity
In doing the same thing
Hoping for something new