I have no appetite for my famished heart,
and although I know we grow apart,
my anger befuddles my balanced mind,
because of that which I\'ve left behind.
I fear no death, nor pain, nor hatred,
other than the disease to which you have catered;
I\'m immune to what woes others can cause,
yet my mind spins me tales of unfaithful whores.
Not too good a riddance, nor blissful farewell;
I long to escape from the corner of this cell,
though logic and reason pervade my resentment,
the ailment I suffer prevents my contentment.
The antidote may lie in rest and relaxation -
perhaps I\'ll gain solace through this revelation,
but how long will I be weakened by \"Love?\"
This is the illness I deserve to dispose of.