Awful Like Me

The hated thing that dances
 and bares its teeth at old people
slow people
babies that cry and family members that will (prattle) phone all the time.
And it slithers through your brain
leaving trails you scrub with frenzied denial
not me not me not…
Private deep moments worry-wondering if there is anyone else…
and does anyone else know about…
Can they tell?
Do I wear it like a stigmata,
like a camp number on my arm?
Do we all house monsters? 
Do we all provide demons a waiting shoulder to perch,
skittering and landing with a whomp.
Wings wafting a stench of uncharity
up your nose.
I must be the only one….
Nobody else is, 
nobody else could possibly be,
like me.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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