I am reborn now,
The dead past is gone;
Left behind in slices of time,
Of years bygone.
A single root,
No wait, a few of them actually,
Remain stuck still
In the muck of the past.
A bolus of soft vomit
Of self pity; I play with it.
Will have to now vomit it out
The over bearing stench, getting unbearable!
But it helps you,
Helps you get shorn of all that is unnecessary,
The filthy conformity, the make-believe, the ostentatious.
So what if a little smelly a medicine?
The creativity dies within,
When depression sets in. Shun it!
No way, it is nothing but that pain,
A fertile soil for creativity's gain! Treasure it.