the further I sweep it under the rug, <br />the more this cancer builds walls inside-out. <br />the more I fear myself, or starve myself of <br />essential self-appreciation, or cringe, or <br />drive blindly through the rising twisting roads, <br />the more the grease collects. the puddle of <br />grease and sweat too big to step around. <br />the less I check and balance, and the more <br />I deny or delay or forget, the deeper I sink, <br />which equates incompetence. which means <br />failure. failure ensures low moods <br />and low moods ensure a cold blanket of loneliness. <br />the taller the tree becomes in his journey to the sky, <br />the more ambition I lose to conquer him <br />and get there first. <br />the urge fades and I decline dangerously. <br />the more I dropp anchor or wear masks, <br />or stubbornly decide not to pick up the phone <br />or leave the house, <br />the longer I'll stay where nobody is. <br />the worse my beautiful original features seem. <br />the more I'll feel neglected. <br />more and more, I'll be killing myself. <br />the more I follow advice and the arrows, <br />the less independent I become. <br />dependence ensures cling and cling leads to conflict. <br />the more I pray, the better. I'll start feeling better <br />if I dust off the past and ride on the crest of progress. <br />the more dreams I have of you, <br />the less I trust myself to stand up in confidence <br />while I grow more needy. more tragically dismal. <br />more accustomed to panic as I strive hopelessly <br />to accept and comprehend and live with <br />and sit still around the fact <br />that you can't always be near me.<br /><br />Scott Stevenson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sick-19/
