Possession.

Vulnerable and so open, suddenly more susceptible to choking.  Love and its possession are much worse than any demon, as they leave one feeling more powerless and devoid of hope than the most Godless heathens.  Shaken awake from my slumber, I have always been the problem and never the cure yet somehow I still manage to attract beauty in forms that are the most pure.  You say I lack ambition, that my bark is bigger than my bite although I retort by adding this to your list of superstitions and fears of creatures that go bump in the night.  I am a force to be reckoned with, always blessed with whatever it is my heart desires though it seems to only chase the things that guarantee to set it on fire.  Unafraid of being alone, in fact I thrive when I am on my own yet my fear of abandonment prevents me from ruling my kingdom from a lonely throne.  This king of sorrow at his best could leave even the eternally optimistic feeling depressed and then bereft.  I acquire all that I admire then watch woefully as it slowly begins to expire, instead of strengthening my foundation, I neglect it instead then fail to feign surprise when it, like everything else, flat-lines then is dead.  Dead on arrival, dead as a door, desensitized to death now that I have been here before.  Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, never shocked by the promise that things will indeed rust.  Conditioned to die are all things we adore, so it is always best to remember their impermanence before they, too, are washed ashore.  We naively assume that everything is built to last like the Titanic and other relics from our past which are here in an instant then taken so fast, so it is with all the things that we love, we should count our blessings before push comes to shove.