These words will be lost in the ether,
You'll never know them.
How I wish this would purge me,
Strip me clean of these thoughts
That have boiled, churned, simmered, and
Crusted over into greasy burnt bits
On the burner of my mind,
But they stick, stubbornly, staunchly,
Too thick to be peeled away.
These ires will be lost in the void,
The abyss in the pit of my stomach
That cannot be filled by food, nor book,
Nor passion, nor art, nor music.
How I wish I could be satiated,
To overflow myself until your toxins
Seep out over the cusp of the freshly filled cup
Until your poison drips down the drain
But it brews, brazenly, bitterly,
Too strong to be bled away.
These cries will be lost to nothing.
The tears tumble again and again.
How I wish for a drought.
But is it easier to dwell in the desert than the garden?
Does forgetting either make them go away?
Or is it better to hate than forget?
...the problem is, I don't hate the gristle.
I don't hate the bitter brew.
Even though these words will be lost,
And you'll never know them,
Therefore you will not remember,
But the residue of you will always be.