this, incessant self-querying, the heart pain tug that tugs on a clockwork-random schedule, should I pull it up by the roots, that, the deepest cut of all.
when you obsess, perplexed about responsibility, about escape, from what you’ve planted, which came up with thorns unexpected.
the sweat, from the care and feeding, rankles and saddens, for this investments sour taste makes you question your common-sensical nonsensical,
that intersection where the heart and the brain clash fearsome.
this is oft, too oft, how life sinks it teeth into you, and extracting those thorns, leaving teeth marks hurting long long time after those withered roots get tugged, pulled,
like a pain in the heart that was exorcised, but couldn’t never be fully excised