Obsessed. It never crossed my mind—that’s how
Obsession goes. You do it, do it, and
It seems so natural to you. Allowed
To fester, fostered there—that grain of sand,
So simple, lodged within your shoe, you start
To scratch and scrape and kick and shake, (to no
Avail, it’s true), and yet it plagues you. Mark,
That soon enough a shaking habit shows
To all the rest—and never once to you.
Eventually the rock is gone, and yet
The tick remains. It’s got out of your shoe
Somehow, and in your mind it stays. You fret
Until you learn how to forget instead.
Till someone sees it there, inside your head.
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