stamp out the innuendoes
before they get loose
from their ribbon-tied cages.
privately I harvest
far deep, down, down,
down,
in a jar,
my desires, feelings,
thoughts
once in awhile
creep,
creep,
creep
a knockin’, does it come back?
“Torture again?” I ask.
“I’m afraid so,” it responds.
Exceptional emotional pangs
dart to and fro
throughout my means.
