Parasites: they insinuate themselves
into your head, your heart, your art
They exist in the schizophrenic zone:
the lower right corner of your painting
looking for patterns that go to childhood,
the well rehearsed gestures that
allow them to take over,
plant the image in your agitated brain
that makes you doubt your love,
sign over your entire identity,
make you think that they can ****
with a scrape of peach fuzz,
until everything smells, feels,
tastes exactly the same-
a collision of **** and water
that knows money and not art
is the iron that smoothes
out all those creases.
The concrete jungle is the exam.
Their goal is to dominate it.
You enter through the black portal
searching for the thing you lost
in the right corner a long time ago-
the thing you call son or daughter-
tapping out SOS with your forehead
on the button on the wall
that connects with the light outside
until it reads SON to that distant brain.
Whether you **** someone or betray
your country doesn’t matter.
It is just the thing you keep
hidden in the basement
that doesn’t know
that all it needs to escape
is to walk up the stairs.
The light is burning us,
The air is drying us,
Death is upon us,
We are all wriggling,
In your *****.
You love, hate, hope, fear and plan, do you?
I am your tapeworm, I am inside you.
You are my universe.
I don't love, hate or fear, I don't need to.
My only hope is that any egg of mine
Makes another one of me in an
Island universe like you.
They come here,
Invade our land,
Take our resources,
Take our children,
They speak a barbaric language,
Like glass breaking in our ears.
They wear wierd clothes,
Like colorful trash bags.
They force us to speak their language,
They take our land,
Call it America.
Tell it to our children.
They aren't our children.
Where will we go now?
A remarkable bit of history.
He stalks like a cat.
Then he roars aloud to scare out their attempts.
He is bringing swinging claws.
Swinging from his metal paws.
He only wants the human his master thinks.
To rip apart their work stink.
His brothers rumble the ground.
They also fly from the sky circling around.
Remembering the sounds of cries of the past.
Just like his brothers to sneak a midnight snack.
Not only that but the pesky insects that feed.
As they try to fight to end a world of greed.
Roaring once more at the parasites host.
Only one can save them to grow.
He throws another roar to the wind.
To be, feed, his fill of skin.
Not to be hated but always feared by his foes.
He will go wherever his scent will go.
Try another round of joe.
What he thinks no one will ever know.
Right now we have all we need.
After the far cry is heard he is swift at the deed.
Try again and again to ravage the pain.
What he finds out might make you go insane.
Some would say the lush green forest on the mountainside is perfect
But I know almost every forest
Lush or grey
Is plagued with disease
Whether it is the tiniest of parasites
Or the most destructive of predators.
everyone has a problem a trouble not everything is all joy and no ones life is perfect
Save yourself, you insufferable, juxtaposed parasite.
Day 6/31 of my "Six Words A Day" Challenge for the whole month of July, the whole collection can be found on my page on the first of August.
you tended to parasites,
thinking they were blossoms.
you expected them
to grow around
i used to be.
you expected something beautiful.
vines are constricting me,
growing around me,
curling inside me.
parasites are scuttling on me,
they are a part of me.
i am made up
and wilted flowers.
everything good in me
has been devoured by
everything bad you've grown.
(i reach out to you,
hoping you will feed me
with gentle intentions.)
but you water me
with hurtful words,
and angry actions.
and you are disappointed
when you see a barren wasteland
in the person
i was supposed to be.
and i am disappointed
because i cannot grow
the way you want me to
with the way
you nurture me.
I'm sorry we've had to sleep on the ground for the past three weeks
Would you rather live in a place with such an unstoppable grief?
That's a harsh realm of parasites across the street
Piled right up your shoulder blade is concrete
They sadly noticed my silent birthday wish was wings
To leave from the entrance, of the air I breathe