It poisoned me from the beginning
and cast on me a curse.
Now I’m foaming at the mouth,
and bleeding words out in verse.
Can’t hold all the poetry inside,
can’t fight the burning bite from within.
It’s exhausting to stay up writing,
but even more so to deny the itch…
it uses me like a parasite,
I’m just the hand to unleash it’s words.
Caught in the drama the message ignites,
until I feel another sting, another burn.
Now my insides convulse with toxins
and I hallucinate flashing scenes
until I can tame a pen
and vomit out a new verse for you to read.
So, I hope you enjoyed the taste of my blood,
for it was all I had in place of ink.
That my pain, torment, illness, and vomit,
has oh, so entertained thee…
Oh, but I need the pen, i need the ink.
I need to let the poison bleed out of me.
I’ll take the foaming, for we are all sick,
and at least I can temporarily get rid of it.
Life bites, life poisons, and life must eat.
For life is a spider, slowly spinning its meat.
With verses for threads, and time as a web,
Life is a poem, and the poem must be fed.