I scurry around the kitchen floor
Picking up the crumbs I find.
This is not the life we asked for,
But the 'adults' play deaf, dumb and blind.

I am afraid that this is my home,
Though, I know you do not want me here,
But where else do I have to roam?
Outside gets cold this time of year.

So I scuttle from the kitchen to my room,
Hot in the knowledge that I am disgusting.
Society would have the streets, my tomb
To spend eternity in entropy, rusting.

Like the Cockroach
We are victims of circumstance,
But we know our enemy and wait
For a call to arms, for our chance.

I sat upon an anthill
The ants were not amused,
They called me inconsiderate
I was threatened and accused,
When I discovered my grievous error
I leaped up to apologize,
Brushing my clothing vigorously
Much to their surprise.

I discovered sometime later
Ants are very clever,
They will sneak inside one's clothing
Like a military endeavor,
A nibble here, a nibble there
A crawling sensation in my hair,
Getting their revenge
For disturbing their home and lair.

Ants are devious
That's for sure,
Tea tree oil was
The cure,
A lesson was learned
For future use,
Be more careful where I sit
To avoid ant abuse.

I could stare at myself in the  mirror for hours.

It starts in my extremities.
a chill creeps its way into my abdomen,
and cements my joints.

The bacteria residing in my intestines
dine on my organs for supper,
they blow up my stomach until I'm
pregnant with air, my non-existent baby
forcing thick liquid out every orifice.

It tickles,
when the flies visit my rotted skin.
Their steps light and playful,
turn sinister, and force their way into my
open mouth to lay their eggs.
I wait, as the larvae devour
my brain tissue.

When I have nothing left to give,
I'll pull down my lower eyelid
and let the maggots slide out.

prosecco wasps
drift on claw songs
for roots of hiccups

these words fail
to capture any such real emotions
we talk and we talk, sure
but you can't feel my anger
frustration, my sadness
left to wonder
in a wander
through the maze that is the mind

with pen put to paper
the characters resemble more inkblots than letters

and so

yielding myself to the misery self-induced
that has, as of yet, only ate at the heels
my chrysalis burst
but no winged thing emerge
only pus, bubbling out my pupa

The love bug
is not kept in a jar
but left to roam from afar.
The love bug
must be set free
to see if it was meant to be.