mad with abuse

i am only mad with abuse

labor is sweet honey

i pour over my fruits

intending to be intensive

reflective pensive

ripping at roots

guesses are guests

pinned to the pressure of my existence

i am a constant churning

turning and wording

tuning and turning

toning my longing

turning all my actions into tangible things

which longing is not

or it is

just the want isn’t there yet

wanting to know

where things are before fruition

and before i forget