Fear

A poet isn’t a person,
for it is a pure, overpowering energized terror,
an ice cream truck that runs you over
before you get a headache from the sugar.

The dentist visit not expected
where you are shown postcards of hell,
get a tattoo of rose,
resulting in an allergic reaction.

You upchuck lunch
after the menu starts talking,
pray to a vending machine
once the wind blowing from the cemetery
makes you only able to see
sitcoms about psychotic marshmallows.

Driven to madness,
which you explain as indigestion
when it only draws blank stares,
writing a map to a lighthouse
your gut insists is hiding in an convenience store.

What is verse?
Is that ghost in you head
appealing like a grotesque traffic accident
that is so hideous to watch,
but you are powerless to stop seeing.

Left impaled on a pen
with a pain that feels so good
to ever stop bleeding.