Plea

Cornered.

Rabid, raging, cold.

Distrusting, baring teeth

at any kind soul

trying to rescue me.

I try

to lyricize my thoughts,

so raw and chaotic,

they get caught

in the saliva and froth

as I choke to compose

hodgepodge word-mosh

into some kind of prose.

Terrified,

a wounded animal

petrified,

but trying to heal,

assuming all that come near

are trying to steal

meager scraps,

scavengers

making a meal

of a deteriorating spirit,

so I attack

whoever comes near it.

 

No.

Do not fester or stagnate,

Do not become a hypocrite,

Do not acquiesce,

Do not succumb

to bitterness;

Don’t grow numb.

 

Fate, guide me.

Sun, direct me.

Moon, console me.

Love, consume me.

 

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