Bitter Pill

I hurt myself in the rain,
and for a moment I looked away,
and they said, 'Take this'.
A tiny pill,
so light I could barely feel it,
no smell, nor taste to distinguish it,
from the clean air.

Warm inside,
protected and hidden,
it sprouts a tiny stem,
and pokes it's head gently into the world,
and chirps rudely.

I chide it and push it back,
sure that I am stronger,
and continue down the path,
striding with a pebble in my boot.

Then it finds a friend,
and another,
and another.
Behind my back,
beneath my skin,
I am strong enough.

Travelling together,
but seperate,
I was unaware.
Naive to nature,
now I run toward my goals,
and put other pains aside.
I am single minded.

The goal is behind me,
and I search the crossroads wary.
That tiny seed has taken root,
and grown a vile weed.
A bitter pill is turned to cud,
and contaminates my bowl.
The dish I've made myself?

Can I stomach the gruel?
Is there a light through the shroud?
Or is the garden lost, and I expelled,
never to see that shore again.
Not here.
In the pit of my stomach is the root,
and it's thorny branches twist up my throat from within,
stinging with small barbs,
the blood pooling,
my voice drowning.
And then violent vines,
creep, and choke,
and starve my passion to death.