Dispose

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.