Sickened

My own poetry makes me sick i crindge away from the words the smells that it brings flooding into my nose the tatse it brings to fill my mouth bitter acid i shut my eyes from the memories that flash the dark my eye lids create just adding to the reality of the illusion gag reflex kicks in as i re-read the words i have written myself they are disgusting hate fills me so purly cloaking the hurt, the pain inside it makes me want to throw things to hit something to become death himself stealing away the life of a beast one name echos in my mind at the moment this name isnt a nightmare its a hitlist "Kirk" i turn away from what i write but i must go back and finish it i see in my mind an inferno where i take everything i have written and burn it laughing. silent. as my past expires but burning paper cannot help because my past is burned into my mind charred flesh i read what i have written my past and want to run want to leave my lunch half digested on the floor the thought of him does the same not only to me. im sure. my own poetry my past sickens me