Sick

I’m sick of my ingrown spikes.
The ones that emerge with every word,
And make a gun out of my overbite.
I’d turn and run from them overnight
But they’ve found a home in bones,
So prone to fright.
Despite my time atoned, alone in flight.
So fetch my forgiveness from the bottom shelf,
For what’s the fun in winning rotten wealth?
I hang here humbled, though not by myself.
Gladly gave up prideful thoughts,
For both our health.