Poetry

It comes out on its own,
Not gradually
As the love of two people forced to
Union
By necessity or tradition
No,
It storms out
Furiously
Panting
It races from my gut onto some
Unlucky sod of a page,
Cursed to bear my unholy thoughts
And thereby forfeiting its beauty!
Leaving me utterly depressed
And i love this depression.
Passionately disliking it seems only to
Strengthen its resolve
To ruin my mind
And i neither think,
Neither feel nor anticipate its onslaught,
i am but a helpless creature
Caught in its eye,
Safe, but imprisoned.
I do not like it,
Poetry.
I'm no writer,
I don't want to be.