Disgusting; inside and out.
At times I flaunt it, shoving it in their faces, cramming it down their throats, forcing them to embrace it.
It doesn't make me feel good. Both doing it, and being it.
In fact, it makes me sad,
Being ugly and gross.
Being a pig and living in a sty.
Wishing I were a pig that learned to fly, signifying the beginning of the end, of all time; or crashing to earth in a mound of feathers and bacon, dead, waiting to fry.
Sometimes when people look at me, I get the feeling like they think I have the plague, or, ARE the plague. Sometimes, when I look back at people, I get the feeling like they think, they're looking into the eyes of the living dead.
And makes me want to stay in bed.
I can feel my boots filling with lead,
Alongside the nails, being pounded, into my head.
I suppose, other creatures, do have to be fed.
I just wish, it was someone else; instead.
But I feel, it can only be me; as I've said.
For... I'm disgusting.
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Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Horror
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