"writing" "poetry"

         
         
    i love it.... i hate it.... it oils the spinning wheels, that at times i want to do away with....        
         
    it's a "gift".... it's just as much a curse; dealing with "creatively" arranged words in verse....        
         
 sometimes i want to throw it away; it's like an itch in the mind need scratching-which at times unable to erase the fact that it wants Molotov(alcohol beverage)of choice down the hatch or bullet to one's own brain perhaps....        
         
  because it's all but one of many copes in the bag; because.... the world with its many illusions so grand.... existence in "so·ciety" all appears to be sham before the ultimate damn....        
         
  it's like a twisted game of, how long, and how much can you stand? internally, like quicksand -externally like sitting stories high viewing the recycled mind and heart aching lay/slain/maimed of the land ....