XLI thinner

Some nights it growls, runs and runs and runs,
As hungry as a gasping fish for salt,
The dark half of the moon for want of sun,
A free wave cresting that's been forced to halt.
This gnawing sound quite outdoes K.D. Lang,
With it's innate regard for constancy,
This crackling and hypnotic pulling pang,
Has not an end in sight that I can see.
It's both ungentle and not rough enough,
Like wind on plumage of a pinioned wing,
It eats and eats and never gets enough,
Just thinner, (like that book by Steven King.)
  More thoughts like these pace up and down the bed,
  On all the wrong things I am overfed.

VI shot

Cupid draws back his bow, you hear a twang,
A fluttering, like bright air full of doves,
You feel the most delightful sort of pang,
Oh, sweeping sweet relief, you are in love!
A thousand crimsons bloom from out the wound,
Like a ripe rose that overwhelms you quite,
You smell the heady blossoms morn to noon,
Dreaming through days and dancing through your nights.
Time marches on, you start to feel a twinge,
A pain that slowly spreads throughout your chest
As if something is lodged between your ribs,
It stings and aches by turns to great unrest.
    You wonder what on earth you have forgot,
    And that's how you remember you've been shot.