Gripped

My blood is a roaring boil.
I've tried..I've tried to stifle
this thing,that can only be
described as some sort of
sickness; I can't shake this
possession.
It scares me that it won't release.
I've been mad at it;
I spit,I throw dirt at it.
It's never had a slip
of it's grip.
I usually bitch and complain,
paint on a fuckin smile;
and wander aimlessly,
gripping tight to the grip,
that's squeezing the life
right out of me.