I feel like I’m on a mortician’s slab lying here in my bed,
unable to sleep, yet rattling with my tablets and meds.
Seemingly stuck in a half-life, feeling neither alive or dead,
while this poem’s like a cockroach trying to burrow out of my head.
It’s the ultimate earworm, eating my brain while creating this rhyme,
there’s a pain growing rapidly behind my eyes.
I won’t look at the alarm clock, I don’t need to know the time,
all I know is I need to use my pen to cut this poem from my mind.
You see I never realised and other poets never told
poetry is literary haemophilia, it’s hard to stop its flow.
You can try to sew your mouth shut but if the truth be told,
writing is just another scar you’ll carry until you’re old.
You realise you see fucking poems fucking everywhere
it’s like poetry is tattooed on your eyeballs, it’s everywhere you stare.
It feels like an itchy scab at which your fingers long to tear,
Poetry fights against you in your brain, pure biological warfare.
So here I lie still feeling like I’m laid out for dissection
thinking that if I took my pills I’d get cranial contraception.
Not some bullshit words, an immaterial conception,
breeding and multiplying like a bacterial infection.
I’ve been thinking too long the sun’s up there’s a new day ahead,
and I can’t move from this slab, my bed.
I reckon I’m still alive, it’s just my feelings that are dead,
and this poem is still like a cockroach trying to burrow out of my head.

5 thoughts on “Cockroach

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