exit points

you're the cancerous
thought they discovered
one day on my brain.

the one they resected and
dissected as if tissue
had any meaningful use.

who knew when they sutured
me after their little
experiment that you'd

grow some inspiration, spread
all over my body unable to
exit through my fingers,

they caught glimpses with
their magnets and tunnels,
good thing you're not a

pace maker, but sometimes
you feel like a metronome
moving back and forth,

stuck in my head until I
put pen to paper, consent
to surgery so you'd leave

a/n: it's funny where my train of thought leads me