you are the itch on my ******* and I have use the razor blades of cheap toilet paper to get rid of you
you are the dirt and grime under my fingernails and I have to dig deep with a safety pin to get you out
you are like fiberglass swimming in the pools of my porous skin and consciously reminding the hemisphere of my suffering with every thread that I’m alive
you are the haughty paint chips that have peeled off the wall and lightly floated to the floor awaiting to taint the envenomed mind of toddlers
you are the popped **** blisters oozing down my sun poisoned shoulders
you are the gummy white film that has coagulated at the corner of my mouth
you are the burning rash on top of my feet and there is no soothing aloe that will cure you
you only provide brine and lemon juice to the paper cuts of my limitations
and if the choice was mine to either have another conversation with you or take a beheading
I’d sprint towards the guillotine, impatiently waiting for the executioner to carry out the sentence
and my tilted severed head will slouch peacefully in the brightly shining sun, smiling in the woven basket of relief
but I know you’ll be there painting a mural of fabricated stories of aches and moans in the hallways of my ear canals
because after I’m long gone and I’ve said my farewells to all the foolish molecules of easily forgotten pastimes you’ll just keep coming back like a thunderstorm of bill collectors like a kitten to a shoelace like ****** to your father and you’ll bring nothing to the table or offerings to the gods except exasperation to our nerve endings and disdain to everyone and anyone you fall in with like a bear claw to the back
so why is it that the quiet guy who wants to be left alone, somehow always attracts the most bothersome people of the world who never shut the **** up?