Here's a creepy poem/prose item I found packed away with some art supplies from the last time I moved (a year and a half or so ago):
Momma always said, "It's no extra trouble" to indicate that you should stay for whatever was happening when you dropped by, or "Since I've already gone to the trouble..." when things didn't turn out as planned but one might as well take advantage of the preparations.
As though things inherently hold a particular amount of trouble, which begets a finite amount of benefit, which must be used up.
But make no mistake, I will put you to extra trouble, from which you'll find no way of making the best of things.
The way of your voice, and the way of my listening to it, set off loud and insistent songs of words in my head to which you'll never listen.
No amount of trouble will translate my intentions, my thoughts, my understanding to your crowded brain. Oh, but there will be trouble.
I've crawled through snakes and stones to find you, but you are not the snakes, or the stones, nor are you at their center.
You are no nearer, though I can still hear your voice through the clanging response of my mind, of my heart, of my body.
Here I sit. Snake, stone, me, snake, stone, wondering if it was you I craved, or the answering echo of my incommunicable thoughts that sounds every time you open your mouth.
Perhaps I never even wanted you, but since I've gone to the trouble already...it's no extra trouble to plague you, anyway.