Save Your Intervention

I fear I may quite possibly be
addicted...
pathologically needing to
spill ink in an attempts to
somehow enhance life...
or maybe it's to
purge the pain of
transgressions gone by...
or is it that I can
release the repressed sexuality
of a woman abstinent...
because she's too afraid of intimacy...
or maybe... maybe it's that
get high I get when I
spill line upon line of
who I am
and what makes me...
divinely ME...
and then...
go back and READ...
and I...
learn about ME...
within the lines of my
poetry...

whatever it may be...

I think I quite possibly
may be...
addicted.

Progressively becoming
more and more acutely dependent...
I have begun to ... think poetically...
speak poetically... I even view
the sky and the trees poetically...
I love poetically... I eat poetically...
and if I were havin' sex...
I'd most definitely be
fucking poetically....

I cry poetically...I laugh poetically...
I even get pissed off and will
cuss you out poetically... I live poetically...
and will die poetically...because...
these words will be my legacy...
and I will live on for ages and ages...
incarnate me... nevery dying... poetically.

I stress poetically...I undress poetically...
the only place I am unadorned...IS
poetically... unconformed poetically...
I rebel poetically... I bend the system over
and fuck it politely...no vaseline...poetically.

Yes...Indeed...I will admit... I'm addicted...
poetically
.
.
.
but you can
save your intervention...
I'll die here...
fornicating with a verb...
smokin' a noun...
with ink shootin' through my veins...
living life...
poetically.