Poems Don't Have to Rhyme

Compulsion

Whose blood is it in me

That craves fuzz, guts, and eyeballs?

Who's the thirsty bastard that gave me this parched throat?

Which one of you owes me my manhood?

Which one of you robbed me of my livelihood?

Is it dear old Dad, who won't answer my calls?

Or lovely Mother, who left without a coat

Into the freezing air, no shoes on her feet

As she ran down the street with me in her womb—

I'm amazed it wasn't my tomb!

By whom am I infected

By lousy, rotten genetics?

Or should we say I was merely fated

To kill, I was created.

Where is it?

Where can I find it?

They say I've got to give it to get it

But how can I love when no one ever showed me how?

Thanks, I'll stick to the bodies for now.