This Poetic Virus.

In the cruel shadow of an ink spitting sword,
A present absence is revealed in a word,
I have generously burdened my lifetime with stationery,writing,,
Damnation is my prison to be,
Condemnation beckons and dares to be a companion along the way,
My goodness,
Insanity has never seemed so real,too real,
To say I'm loosing it,
Is a pure understatement.

If you are gently going through my heart,
And honestly listening to this endless,undying agony,
I need you to understand that I'm infected,
A vicious virus skates my whole being,
It has taken refuge in this home of a body,
A rolling stone I have become,
I clutch at a straw,any straw,
This poetic virus is my end to be.

The way it gnaws my conscience,
Leaves a tickling shudder when it creeps my skin,
Every fibre is left taut,hurts,
I want to gouge out my eyes,
And rendered be a child of darkness,
I want to pluck out this kinky outgrowth on my head,
And scratch this black skin white,
I'm a victim of a brutal sadistic virus,
The poetic virus.

I can no longer tell,
If my allies are laughing with me,
Or laughing at me.
We spent time together,sometimes,
I think we're doing fine,
Their absent presence is way better,
Than no presence at all.
May be poetry is a good virus after all,
For it licks where it bites.