I’ve been cured of my passion, my drive, my power.
Where has my sickness gone?
The push behind my brain, the pressure upon my artistic uvula has been relieved.
  
I threw up words, stanzas, poems.
I barfed- poetic-*****.
Pure-unadulterated *****
I was content, fulfilled- or rather- emptied.
The bug has flown from its host; my well has run dry

I don't wish to be cured
I want to *****, puke, ****- more lyrics than ever before.
The world is in need of sick poets, deathly ill individuals.
What sick vaccine is eradicating our precious uncommon cold?

A cleansed world is one without expression, without freedom, and without the most beautiful and necessary illness we fondly christen as: Poetry.