I feel the breath on my pores.
And,
with every hair, standing on my arms,
I feel so close to being drained by these last ideas
and the thought of each hair standing still,
and then, falling.

Tape on my mouth, a horror to remove,
for I will only scream for help.
The trees remind me of starving snakes,
finding me, amorously begging for,
nothing but a break.

Spare the lightbulb.

I feel ropes holding me between two oaks,
I move only as the wind makes them.
If not, surely,
they will die.
They’ll grow old, and have nothing
to keep them standing.
The ropes holding me up will morph to a noose of my hands.
And the snakes will know, intuitively,
that I am there.
They slither like the blood in my veins,
waiting.

Circling me every day, they’re all I can hear.
They’re after me.
They will get to me.
I can only beg through hoping,
otherwise I’m hopeless.