Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I have been craving that which I know will make me sick.

Already,
The mere thought has my stomach roiling,
Insides twisting in displeasure,
Heart pounding out its discomfort,
Head aching in protest;
My fever keeps climbing
But I can't take a hint,
For it seems there's no proper immune response
For desire,
No thorough little antibodies to drive the thought away,
Just a full body reaction,
A rebellion of the senses,
Near anaphylaxis;

It would seem that I'm allergic to you.

But Benadryl and epinephrine are of no use to me
Since it's this wanting that's the problem,
Stumbling over myself just to see you smile,
All the while tying my intestines into impossible knots.
I know that you're no good for me,
But like a dizzy, desperate ******,
I can't cut myself off,
Can't force myself to stop chasing you
Though you cause my airways to constrict.
Written 1/31/11
It all begins with pounding fists
against my door, and men with guns
and yellow tape, and me afraid,
I’m on the floor and crawling toward
the front room drapes to peak outside,
oh what in the world have I done?

A bit relieved, I find out why
a regiment is in my yard,
they say the man that lived next door
has turned up dead behind his shed,
they said he died an awful way,
with eyes ****** out by who knows
what, or why, but either way a
nasty death; poor guy.

The landscape man called 911,
but what he saw he wouldn’t say,
was so surprised to find him dead,
he swallowed his tongue, his face all red,
and there they lie both side by side
the one alive, the other dead.

The EMTs revived the one,
the older guy had long since died,
the guy who lived, they took away
to where? don’t know, they didn’t say,-
but rumor is a padded cell
where all he does both day and night
is moan and drool, he just ain’t right
from what he saw that spooked him.

Within a week I notice things
around the house (not his, but mine)
the porch out back, the wet wood stack,
the shifting earth, the sticking doors,
disgusting insects on the floor,
the pungent stench from underneath
the house, the vents that weep a
sickly brown and soupy ****,  I
must confess in ignorance,
I didn’t know a house could bleed.
I try some bleach, some cleaning spray,
but just can’t scrub the **** away,
it just gets worse, and just when I
can take no more a chasm cracks
behind the stack of sticky wood,
and from the hole a flying horde
of Satan’s pawns and slugs and prawns
and beasts of sorts I swear I’ve never
seen before come shrieking out and
flock about so loud the sound is
deafening.

And now I know what mute man saw,
he saw what’s left, the face of stone
when people die at home alone,
the rigor mortis, gouged out eyes
when killed by things that men despise,
those beasts that creep and crawl and fly
about as Satan’s pawns or slugs
or prawns or whatever else might
make them cry or swallow their tongue.

I really don’t know what the big
deal is -  good god
its only BUGS.

I guess I’ll call an exterminator.
Sweet Darkness,
You hold me in your loving arms,
cold and comforting.
I take you into myself,
and we become One.
Unhealthy obsession,
I welcome this sickness.
I long for your wretchedness.
I despise you.
Embrace me with your dark kiss;
Tear me apart from the inside out.
I cannot live without the Pain.
Who am I without You?
Poem about depression.  How can it be good?   criticisms welcome, please accredit me.  I'd love a comment.

— The End —