This is what we are dealing with
a lifetime of killing it,
by feeling our ****
while others split,

by writing duplicates
of the same poem that fits
with the scheme
we are obsessing over,

replaying the scene
in our dreams
as we get older,
and shoulder that boulder,
such a bad mad monkey
that scratches our back with
facts we would like to ignore.

What a ***** of an addiction
that makes us explore
our pains in poetry,
while others just fall, crawl
and convulse on the cold tile floor.