arise, you waking monster,
and meet my swollen eyes.
from which my tears do fall,
from which I see your lies.
your rage is food to all the ones,
who wallow, watch, and wish.
you feed them every time you hurt
me and with every hurried kiss.
to Lust, you toss your rage like sweets,
a plumped belly you gave her.  
to Fear, you place it gently, down
around her your heart wavers.
and last and worst, to your king Grief,
you hesitate to feed.
for his appetite is all-consuming
and to him you rarely heed.
and by the time you finish
with all your empty friends
you've nothing left to give me
but a heart that beats in pen.
so i write your words into a poem
so that i may forget them,
and over time that ink does fade,
and your words, if i let them.
and now i write with open hands
and my heart is free to throw
these memories into a blue night
and these sorrows into prose.