My Poetry Dump

The Bugs of Death

Caution: Don't read if you have any kind of insect-induced fear

Every time I think about Them, my mind writhes in pain. They eat up every living moment, suffocating me from the inside out. My mind and body will not succumb to Their wishes, but every time They attack, we grow weaker. Soon, I will undoubtedly cave, and my life will be reduced to nothing but a mess of sobs and stress.

The bugs that infiltrate my home every day haunt me in my dreams, stealing any breath of joy and mutilating it into one of horror and trepidation.

They watch me, I can tell. Their beady eyes follow my every move with intelligence and wisdom, waiting, ever waiting, for me to make one fatal move. Then They'll strike. I can already imagine it; the way I will eventually upset Them, fully turning Their wrath on me. How They'll attack me with Their large, sharp pincers, shredding my skin as if it were butter.

How I'll cry out for help, my voice fighting to be heard, just to be muffled by the sheer amount of bodies that will be pressing on me, keeping me from breathing.

How the force and fear will eventually be too much, and my body will give up, thrusting me into Forever Darkness.

The question is not if They will attack, but when. For I know They will. And when that day comes, They will know exactly how to carry out Their vain deed, for as I said, They watch me.

I sense Them as I sit down at my desk, Their eyes inspecting my every motion. As I sleep, the conscious part of my brain recognizes the sounds of antennae rubbing against one another, as if eagerly awaiting the time to kill. Sometimes, I can even sense Them outside of my home, cold, cruel eyes following me through my daily errands.

I know They monitor me.

Every second of my life, I think about Them. The few signs I have, like a light tapping on the floorboards or a thin trail of crumbs, reminds me that I am always being tracked and watched, like a lamb for slaughter.

---

As I come through the foyer of my charming cottage, I can tell that something is afoot.

The house is dead silent; not even a whisper of a mouse. Hanging my coat up, I steadily move toward my bedroom with a sense of foreboding. A moment too late, I have aforethought to flee far away from this town, this country, this continent.

Bugs surround me.

They make a sound something similar to a battle cry, and I shriek.

Overexcited pinchers tug at my skin, ripping apart every skin cell and blood vessel. Pure agony rips through my body, and suddenly my vision cuts out due to the torment. The world around me gets hazy as I desperately try to hold on to life, even though I know that my efforts will be in vain; I am quickly losing my grip. My body is sticky from the amount of blood covering it, and I can feel more of the crimson liquid puddle around me, staining the wood floor. I weakly swat at the throng of insects crawling over my face, but I know that it will do no good in the end. There is no escaping my fate.

Some weary part of me suggests giving up. I know deep down that this is the end, so why make such an effort to try and change my destiny? It will only make me exhausted, and for what? A slower death?

So instead of fighting the swarming bugs, I let my head droop, and formally invite Death in. He's been eagerly waiting on my doorstep for years now, and He rejoices when I let Him fully control the last seconds of my pitiful life.

With one last blood-curdling scream of affliction, Death envelopes me and wraps me up in His outstretched arms. 

Sorry for the lack of a rhyming scheme and rhythmic lines, I've hit major writer's block... I wrote this one for an Edgar Allen Poe assignment, where we had to write in his style. You know, now that I think about it, this is probably where my morbidity sprouted from... Hope you liked it!