my adenoid shakes hands with the devil

Cut, cut, cut, another line again, to the pit of hell, to the adenoid within,
You feel its power, burning desire to control your every word—or lack there of,
To hold your feelings hostage by its chemical devices, the weapons you hold
To fight off the tumultuous terror, you can smell your fear, only help to mask
The real disguise: original sin, for it is not your fault you’ve become what you are,
It is genetic, heralded as perfection alluring another’s lost soul, it is hereditary, you
Tell yourself at night, this is not my fault: but then, who’s to blame? You seem to think
That the justification is in your suffering, you’ve come so far with it, so far it seems to be
Without the medicine to cure the ailing cry for a cartoon freedom, the howl for a smooth
Transition to the next world, a scream to enter the place where all will fall at your feet,
As though you are some junky Jesus, healing the sick while riding the horse along the ranges
Of retreating stars, and although there is nothing to say while the play continues, the harvest
Of sadness has died, and the elation of the fabricated emotions pushing their way through your
Thin, dried, aging skin, helps you forget all in all this is what you are. Another victory for the
Elixirs, another loss for immoral purity.