Sick Poem by Scott Stevenson

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