For many moons, I buffet-fed my trauma
I can not say it worked out too well for me
It simply created a wealth of drama
It multiplied my emotional debris

When feeding my swelling anguish failed to work
I figured I'd have to strive to starve it out
It became quite hangry — turned into a jerk
So I switched it up, picked a different route

I figured, perhaps my pain is like a plant
And plants tend to need fresh water to survive
So I spit out an olden anti-rain chant
But my trauma seemed to continue to thrive

My trauma, its finest life it was living
I thought I would attempt the opposite way
I watered it in amounts unforgiving
Which set a gigantic growth spree into play

The feast and the famine — the drought and the flood
My trauma grew rapidly through these measures
So I dragged its stubborn ass right through the mud
It was a moment...