Wanton Emotion

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Like Robin Hood, but charitable not,
many a victim have been left to rot.
Forever taking from emotionally poor,
with every visit, it takes more and more.
King sized beds reduced to cots,
then the cots reduced to floor;
no food to eat, no utensil or pot,
nor money to get something from the store.

Though evil in truth, welcomed into the home,
given lodging, clothes, toothbrush and comb,
for its intentions are hidden behind a mask
while day in and day out it continues to ask
for plenty more freedom to wander and roam,
while behind closed doors, wine drains from casks
and at the mouth, the emotion will foam
as your riches and wealth are reduced to flasks.

It takes and takes and takes from the good
till there's nothing but a husk where you once stood,
till you forget who you are and who you were
and thought in your head begin to stir,
thinking in ways you never thought you would
while the wanton emotion is laden with fur
that it took with the tactics of old Robin Hood,
stolen from kind folks and chivalrous sirs.

Its goal is to rip, to tear, to shred
any ounce of sanity in one's head.
It sips some Merlot in its comfortable bed,
it weighs you down like chains of lead
while your sanity hangs by a singular thread,
and once you feel you may be free,
as if you'd felt the return of glee,
as if light had been yours, again, to see,
as if it had finally collected its fee,
no more justified want or need to flee,
you're stuck in a rut with those like me,
beaten, battered, as good as dead.






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