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The Worm

A Stalker Swallows

By Stephen RichardsPublished 4 years ago 2 min read
1

He walked around

The mall for days

With nothing much to do

No job, no funds,

No schedule, too

He was

Just out of school

He came upon a computer

In the hallway of the mall

The big and clunky

kind of thing

By a store

That had them all

He saw the chance

To type some words

To someone on the line

To say a little

Something

About nothing on his mind

His fingers

Wet with excited sweat

For freedom to be met

Typed words so fast

That when he wrote

He was placed into a test

A stranger from behind him

Came

To greet him

From the dark

And cursed his very blessed

Soul

For the words he had not sought

Big and tall and loud and mean

The stranger he’d never seen

A stalker from the depths of hell

Had surfaced on his scene

He yelled at him from ear to ear

Screamed shouts of wretched filth

Of how his words

Had been misspelled

From the mind he held so real

The sentence he had conjured up

Was clearly of the waste

The stranger held upon his life

To quicken up his pace

“I’ve been,” he wrote,

“A sorry sight

In a life of utter strife

In a needing of a visit

To the way to see the light

A visit to a doctor, no,

The kind that treats the mind.”

In writing down the name was wrong

The “p” was held in time

The stranger right behind him

In his shouldered flaming cry

Proclaimed the truth of such a lie

The word was “P-S-Y!”

The man was doomed

From then on out

To live amongst the liars

With every word

He ever uttered

The stranger did conspire

To push upon the writer

Broken drugs that blocked the mind

Of innocent productions

For of thus he could survive

The stranger

such a liar

Tightly clutched the man in view

In cloaks of accusations

Stating such a real untruth

That threw away his darkness

And rudely bore the light

He dimmed in changing words

From lies

to coldly blaring whys

“You had to tell the truth,”

He said

With every drug he pushed,

“Or else your life is not your bed

To tell me how you look

I did not see your words that day

I heard them from your throat

For lacking masses o’er your brain

Your thoughts out loud they spoke.”

He said his words with thrown advance

A soldier in a stance

To cover up the evidence

Of a conscience in the man

The throat the man was born to own

The stranger firmly held

A purchase from the doctor’s stolen

Contract made of stealth

The stranger met the man in bed

A talking up a worm

A gun held high to break the words

And block the blowing storm

“The only way to block your mind,”

The stranger firmly screwed,

“Is hold my worm within your throat

And blow my mighty plume.”

The man ne’er loved the spoken worm

For talking all he did

No sight to see at all was put

Upon his need for bliss

To this day on

The worm persists

A talking in the throat

The man held high

His head erect

His pride he ne’er sees go.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Stephen Richards

Released brand new song - As We Are.

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