There's a gnat within my brain.
I am working through the pain,
but if I'm plain, it's something I can't help but want.

and

The thing burrowed right inside
where the tender stuff resides.
I tried to hide it though I knew you'd see the front.

and

As I'm sitting in the dark
composing poems to dim its spark,
it's made its mark, so now I find I must be blunt.

and

Something's wrong, so wrong, with me.
The bug is in too deep to see—
won't let me be, although it has the gall to taunt.