Poetry Saturday: Cure.

If I were to be cured,

I can only wonder if my personality would be

cured as well.

 

I disgust myself,

To think that all I am

Is this disease

That could someday evaporate

Like my happiness has for the past four years.

 

And I wonder,

Would I know happiness to find it?

Would I know the words to say,

In place of my melodic melancholy.

 

I don’t know.

I simply won’t know

For a very

long

time.

 

As I wait,

To be cured,

Of a disease that swallows life like air,

Perhaps when they find the cure,

I will be dead already.

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