There are clots in me, stopping the vital flow,
A river awash with lifes compulsary needs,
An undertow, which pushes and drags me along,
Some unknown selfish desire, from which we survive.

Loss of such, bringing pain and distress,
Things which Ive learned to believe carcenogenic,
Nothing more than more bitter pills to swallow,
The antidote: a placebo, leaving me bruised.

Clots becoming dams, raising to breaking point,
Now turned tumorous, with a life of its own,
Undertow, with its consuming force, undying needs,
Leave me, alone, to be dragged in with its tides.