Aborted

Murmur – whisper to me
Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams
Yearning to become real
The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy?
These fictions so corporal so obtuse
Restricting me, frustrating me
The fictions so morbid seem foretold
Digging in the psyche
No theory, no medication, no session
Can shed light upon the monster I am told to become
No theory, no medication, obsession
The smell of blood, the soothing of the pain mine
A medical condition? No, merely purpose
Decrepit wits in a mind mine
These fictions so corporal so obtuse
Restricting me, frustrating me
The fictions so morbid seem foretold
Release the rage in me