Verse Versus Self

I took this book down from the shelf;
it called itself
self-help with
an addiction to twists.

Once it had me in its grip,
every slight was a story
and each assailant
swift.

Any
pill was
a prophecy,
self-fulfilling
pathology
proving harder to
kick
watching each
successive chapter
mangle happily ever
after to
bits.

(The volumes on villainy require more
impressionable sets
of eyes, for their
motives are less black
and white than mine.

My soul was born colour blind,
no armistice between
malice and misguidance.)

But for all the subtle
violence,

a rehabilitation
rose from that
garden of prose, where
wind speaks in
whispers and
blossoms collapse
in droves.

Something charming there
grows
in a way the addict in
me opposed or merely
missed before.

In a life you’re
given
everything, it’s
easy to assume there will
always be
something more.

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