By Bryan Jackson
A personality both
lovely and vile
they love it, but
will scorn it after awhile.
A lifetime and still
no crew or posse to name.
Day after day the
isolation flickers then burns like flame.
The heart corrodes
and becomes a serpent of Hell
as it slithers and
pollutes, intestinal tracks swell.
Spleen ruptures and
poisons the bowels
every face in the
family damns you with scowls.
Blood rushes and
fills the scrotum sack,
boils filled with
disease cover an aching back.
Tear ducts are
overrun with yellowish puss.
Maggots ravage the
vocal cords in a speedy fuss.
None of this is fatal
to the body, just the soul.
Now I am as I am
treated, like a sick troll.
Without anyone else
to corrupt I am my only victim
my hate paralyzes and
shorts my nervous system.
My urethra is clogged
with biting mites.
The pain is nonstop
and blurs my sights.
Anus overflowing with
foul sludge.
I beg it to leave,
but the serpent won't budge.
It tells me everyday,
“You will die soon enough.”
“but, what you endure
now is foreplay. Death's where it gets rough!”
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