Crippling Poison

My mind secretes something very unknown, itsa foulodor, an evil prescence, the never-ending ringtone. It works as a translator, picking the bad from the good, working as a complicator, under an already smoking hood. I try to trap that poison, and convert it to something better. But its hard to concentrate, when above your head is bad weather. It thunders in my head, then I see the lightning. It stops me in my tracks, and keeps my life from ripening. This crippling poison is one that takes over in time, its a wrinkled finger that plucks an already frail line. This guitar called life is enjoyed by one who loves the sound, but what if your tone-deaf? Should you still be around? Maybe you can pick up another instrument, one thats much easier. Or you can take the strings of that guitar, and cut them, and watch it disappear.