Excess

ignorance to awareness is a one way street.
too late to detach
like old times.

God damn,
how the tables have turned.
and how very ironic that
self-control
should be my weakness.


the clutches
of dreaded love
on a gluttonous heart
too full, too fast
the opposite of broken.
saturated, and swelling
bittersweet rhythmic aching.

rapidly building pressure
in an already tight chest cavity.

feet firmly planted
on instability
(inconsistent priorities.)
ragged breath from constricted lungs
(fluctuating atmospheres.)
coughing the black tar
of poisonous passion
(from the excruciatingly painful mind of a poet.)

I wish there were platelets
to clot emotion.
not even rain can quench this wilted flower.